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NEW  VOICES 


AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  CONTEMPORARY 
POETRY 


BY 
MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1921 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  June,  1919 


I    .   YJUI 

W5 


MAi  A) 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

J.  SCOTT  CLARK,  A.  M.,  LITT.  D. 

PROFESSOR  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE 

AT  NORTHWESTERN  UNIVERSITY,   1892-191 1, 

THIS  WORK  OF  A  PUPIL 

Quaecumque  sunt  vera, 
Proba,  justa,  mera, 
Omnia  haec  dona 
Praebes  nobis  bona, 
Alma  Mater  cara, 
Benedicta,  clara, 
Celsa  in  honore 
Nostro  et  amore. 

University  Hymn  by  J.  SCOTT  CLARK. 


454819 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  thanks  of  the  author  are  due  to  the  following  publishers  and 
editors  for  their  kind  permission  to  reprint  the  following  selections 
for  which  they  hold  copyright: 

To  The  Macmillan  Company  for  "Penetralia"  and  "The  Winds," 
from  "Poems,"  by  Madison  Cawein;  for  "Spring  Sows  Her  Seeds," 
from  "The  Drums  in  Our  Street,"  by  Mary  Carolyn  Davies;  for 
"Breakfast,"  "The  Father,"  "The  Messages,"  and  "The  Old  Bed," 
from  "Battle  and  other  Poems,"  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson;  for  "Up 
A  Hill  and  A  Hill"  and  "Moon  Folly,"  from  "Myself  and  I,"  by 
Fannie  Stearns  Davis  Gifford;  for  "Broadway,"  from  "Poems  and 
Ballads,"  by  Hermann  Hagedorn;  for  "Transformations"  and  "The 
Wind  Blew  Words,"  from  "Moments  of  Vision,"  by  Thomas  Hardy; 
for  "The  Bull,"  from  "Poems,"  by  Ralph  Hodgson;  for  "The  Santa 
Fe  Trail,"  "Aladdin  and  the  Jinn"  and  "The  Leaden-Eyed,"  from 
"The  Congo  and  other  Poems,"  by  Vachel  Lindsay;  for  "The  Broncho 
That  Would  not  be  Broken,"  from  "The  Chinese  Nightingale  and 
Other  Poems,"  by  Vachel  Lindsay;  for  "Patterns"  and  "The  Bom- 
bardment," from  "Men,  Women  and  Ghosts,"  by  Amy  Lowell;  for 
"Old  Age,"  from  "Collected  Poems,"  by  Percy  Mackaye;  for  "Ships," 
from  "The  Story  of  the  Round  House,"  by  John  Masefield;  for 
"Cargoes"  and  "A  Consecration,"  from  "Salt  Water  Ballads  and 
Poems,"  by  John  Masefield;  for  one  sonnet  from  "Lollingdon  Downs," 
by  John  Masefield;  for  "Isaiah  Beethoven,"  "Lucinda  Matlock"  and 
"Anne  Rutledge,"  from  "The  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  by  Edgar 
Lee  Masters;  for  "Draw  the  Sword,  O  Republic"  and  "My  Light  with 
Yours,"  from  "Toward  the  Gulf,"  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters;  for  "Mys- 
tery" and  "Interlude,"  from  "The  New  Day,"  by  Scudder  Middle- 
ton;  for  "Love  Song"  and  "Mountain  Song,"  from  "You  and  I,"  by 
Harriet  Monroe;  for  "The  Child's  Heritage,"  from  "The  Quest,"  by 
John  G.  Neihardt;  for  "Flammonde,"  from  "The  Man  against  the 
Sky,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  for  "Deirdre,"  from  "Songs 
from  the  Clay,"  by  James  Stephens;  for  "In  the  Poppy  Field,"  from 
"The  Hill  of  Vision,"  by  James  Stephens;  for  "On  the  Day  when  the 

vii 


viii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Lotus  Bloomed,"  from  "Gitanjali,"  by  Rabindranath  Tagore;  for 
two  narratives  from  "Fruit-Gathering,"  by  Rabindranath  Tagore; 
for  "Leaves"  and  "The  Answer,"  from  "Rivers  to  the  Sea,"  by  Sara 
Teasdale;  for  "Peace,"  "I  Would  Live  in  Your  Love"  and  "The 
Lamp,"  from  "Love  Songs,"  by  Sara  Teasdale;  for  "The  Flight," 
from  "The  Flight  and  other  Poems,"  by  George  Edward  Woodberry; 
for  "The  Song  of  Wandering  Aengus,"  from  "Poems,"  by  William 
Butler  Yeats;  for  the  lyric  beginning  "The  Wind  Blows  out  of  the 
Gates  of  Day,"  from  "The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire,"  by  William  But- 
ler Yeats: 

To  Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  "After  Two  Years,"  by 
Richard  Aldington,  from  "Some  Imagist  Poets,  1916";  for  "Dawn," 
by  Richard  Aldington  from  "Some  Imagist  Poets,  1917";  for  "Her 
Words,"  from  "The  Shoes  that  Danced  and  other  Poems,"  by  Anna 
Hempstead  Branch;  for  "An  Unbeliever,"  from  "The  Heart  of  the 
Road,"  by  Anna  Hempstead  Branch;  for  two  poems,  each  called 
"Song,"  from  "Poems,"  by  Florence  Earle  Coates;  for  "Sea  Gods," 
by  H.  D.,  from  "Some  Imagist  Poets,  1916";  for  "Windmills,"  by 
John  Gould  Fletcher,  from  "Arizona  Poems,"  in  "Some  Imagist 
Poets,  1916";  for  one  strophe  from  "Lincoln,"  by  John  Gould  Fletcher 
in  "Some  Imagist  Poets,  1917"  and  for  one  strophe  from  "Irradia- 
tions," by  John  Gould  Fletcher;  for  "Pandora's  Song,"  from  "The 
Firebringer,"  by  William  Vaughn  Moody;  for  "Love  Is  a  Terrible 
Thing,"  from  "The  Sister  of  the  Wind,"  by  Grace  Fallow  Norton; 
for  "The  House  and  the  Road"  and  "The  Cedars,"  from  "The 
Singing  Leaves,"  by  Josephine  Preston  Peabody;  for  "Frost  in 
Spring"  and  "Patrins,"  from  "The  Door  of  Dreams,"  by  Jessie  B. 
Rittenhouse;  for  "Scum  O'  The  Earth,"  from  the  volume  of  the  same 
name  by  Robert  Haven  Schauffler;  for  "Vistas"  and  "Certain  Amer- 
ican Poets,"  from  "A  Lonely  Flute,"  by  OdeU  Shepard: 

To  Messrs  Henry  Holt  &  Company  for  "The  Cuckoo"  and  "The 
Virgin's  Slumber  Song,"  from  "My  Ireland,"  by  Francis  Carlin;  for 
"Comrade  Jesus,"  from  "Portraits  and  Protests,"  by  Sarah  N.  Cleg- 
horn;  for  "An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads"  and  "The  Furrow  and  the 
Hearth,"  from  "Wild  Earth  and  other  Poems,"  by  Padraic  Colum; 
for  "Miss  Loo"  and  "The  Listeners,"  from  "The  Listeners,"  by 
Walter  de  la  Mare/$  for  "Jim  Jay"  and  "Silver,"  from  "Peacock 
Pie,"  by  Walter  de  la  Mare;  for  "The  Sound  of  the  Trees,"  "The  Gum 
Gatherer,"  "An  Old  Man's  Winter  Night,"  "The  Cow  in  Apple 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  ix 

Time"  and  "Brown's  Descent,"  from  "Mountain  Interval,"  by 
Robert  Frost;  for  "Fog,"  "Monotone"  and  "Child,"  from  "Chicago 
Poems,"  by  Carl  Sandburg;  for  "Loam,"  "Cool  Tombs"  and  "Mono- 
syllabic," from  "Cornhuskers,"  by  Carl  Sandburg;  for  "A  Cyprian 
Woman:  Greek  Folk  Song"  and  "Remembrance:  Greek  Folk  Song," 
from  "The  Factories  and  other  Poems,"  by  Margaret  Widdemer;  for 
"The  Dark  Cavalier,"  from  "The  Old  Road  to  Paradise  and  other 
Poems,"  by  Margaret  Widdemer: 

To  The  Century  Company  for  "Merchants  from  Cathay,"  from  the 
volume  of  the  same  name  by  William  Rose  Bene"t;  for  "After  Sunset," 
from  The  Century  Magazine,  by  Grace  Hazard  Conkling;  for  "Seal 
Lullaby"  and  Road-Song  of  the  Bandar-Log, "  from  "The  Jungle 
Book,"  by  Rudyard  Kipling;  for  "Cherry  Way,"  from  "The  Night 
Court  and  other  Verse,"  by  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell;  for  "Said  the 
Sun,"  from  "War  and  Laughter,"  by  James  Oppenheim;  for  "The 
Runner  hi  the  Skies,"  from  "Songs  for  the  New  Age,"  by  James 
Oppenheim;  for  "Daybreak,"  from  The  Century  Magazine,  by  Louis 
Untermeyer;  for  "How  Much  of  Godhood"  and  "Caliban  in  the  Coal 
Mines,"  from  "Challenge,"  by  Louis  Untermeyer: 

To  Messrs  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "Path  Flower,"  from  the 
volume  of  the  same  name  by  Olive  Tilford  Dargan;  for  "At  Night" 
and  "Maternity,"  from  "Poems,"  by  Alice  Meynell;  for  "I  Have  a 
Rendezvous  with  Death,"  from  "Poems,"  by  Alan  Seeger;  for  "Rich- 
ard Cory,"  from  "The  Children  of  the  Night,"  by  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson;  for  "Miniver  Cheevy,"  from  "The  Town  Down  the 
River,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  for  several  sentences  from 
"The  Enjoyment  of  Poetry,"  by  Max  Eastman: 

To  The  John  Lane  Company  for  two  sonnets  called  "The  Dead" 
from  "The  Collected  Poems"  of  Rupert  Brooke;  for  "Lepanto"  from 
"Poems,"  by  G.  K.  Chesterton;  for  "Da  Leetla  Boy"  from  "Car- 
mina,"  by  Thomas  Augustine  Daly;  for  "The  Iron  Music"  and  "The 
Old  Houses  of  Flanders,"  from  "On  Heaven  and  Poems  Written  on 
Active  Service,"  by  Ford  Madox  Hueffer;  for  "I  Sat  among  the 
Green  Leaves,"  from  "The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls,"  by  Majorie  L.  C. 
PickthaU: 

To  Mr.  Alfred  Knopf  for  "Coming  to  Port"  and  "  Invocation," 
from  "Colors of  Life,"  by  Max  Eastman;  for  "The  Fox"  and  "Said  a 
Blade  of  Grass,"  from  "The  Madman,"  by  Kahlil  Gibran;  for  "As- 


x  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

sault  Heroic,"  from  "Fairies  and  Fusiliers,"  by  Robert  Graves;  for 
" Homage,"  by  Helen  Hoyt,  from  "Others:  An  Anthology  of  the  New 
Verse";  for  "Little  Things,"  from  "Asphalt  and  Other  Poems,"  by 
Orrick  Johns;  for  "Idealists"  and  "Old  Manuscript,"  from  "Mush- 
rooms," by  Alfred  Kreymborg;  for  lyrics  by  William  H.  Davies: 

To  Messrs  Harper  &  Brothers  for  "Paper  Roses"  and  "Roses  in  the 
Subway,"  from  "Poems,"  by  Dana  Burnet;  for  "The  Ballad  of  The 
Cross,"  by  Theodosia  Garrison;  for  "The  Path  of  the  Stars,"  by 
Thomas  E.  Jones,  Jr.,  from  Harper's  Magazine;  for  "The  Birth"  from 
"Dreams  and  Dust,"  by  Don  Marquis;  for  "Sacrifice,"  from  "Flower 
O'  the  Grass,"  by  Ada  Foster  Murray: 

To  Mr.  Mitchell  Kennerley  for  a  selection  from  "The  New  World," 
by  Witter  Bynner;  for  two  sonnets  from  "Sonnets  of  a  Portrait 
Painter,"  by  Arthur  Davison  Ficke;  for  "The  Jew  to  Jesus,"  from  the 
volume  of  the  same  name  by  Florence  Kiper  Frank;  for  " Renascence," 
from  the  volume  of  the  same  name  by  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay;  for 
"Psalm,"  by  Jessie  E.  Sampter,  from  "The  Lyric  Year": 

To  Messrs.  Doubleday  Page  &  Company  for  "The  Dying  Patriot," 
from  "The  Collected  Poems  of  James  Elroy  Flecker;  for  "The  Man 
with  the  Hoe,"  from  "The  Man  with  the  Hoe  and  Other  Poems," 
copyright,  1899  by  Edwin  Markham;  for  "Lincoln,"  from  "Lincoln 
and  Other  Poems,"  copyright,  1901,  by  Edwin  Markham;  for  "The 
Fugitives,"  from  "The  Far  Country,"  by  Florence  Wilkinson;  for 
"The  Flower  Factory,"  from  "The  Ride  Home,"  by  Florence  Wil- 
kinson: 

To  Messrs.  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  "A  Lynmouth  Widow," 
from  "In  Deep  Places,"  by  Amelia  Josephine  Burr;  for  "My  Mirror," 
from  "Candles  that  Burn,"  by  Aline  Kilmer;  for  "Trees,"  "Martin," 
and  "Rouge  Bouquet,"  from  the  memorial  edition  of  "Joyce  Kilmer: 
Poems,  Essays  and  Letters,"  edited  by  Robert  Cortes  Halliday: 

To  Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company  for  "Around  the  Sun,"  from 
"The  Retinue  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Katharine  Lee  Bates,  copy- 
right, 1918;  for  "The  Common  Street,"  from  "A  Chant  of  Love 
for  England  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Helen  Gray  Cone;  for  "The 
Kiss"  and  "Absolution,"  from  "The  Old  Huntsman  and  Other 
Poems,"  by  Siegfried  Sassoon: 

To  Messrs.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company  for  "Grieve  not  for 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xi 

Beauty,"  from  "Grenstone  Poems,"  by  Witter  Bynner;  for  "Nearer" 
and  "Out  of  Trenches:  The  Barn,  Twilight,"  copyright,  1918,  by 
Robert  Nichols;  for  "Forty  Singing  Seamen,"  from  the  volume  of 
the  same  name  by  Alfred  Noyes: 

To  The  Four  Seas  Company  for  "Dawn"  and  "After  Two  Years," 
from  "Images,"  by  Richard  Aldington;  for  "The  Morning  Song  of 
Senlin"  and  two  lyrics  from  "Variations,"  all  from  "The  Charnel 
Rose  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Conrad  Aiken: 

To  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Mosher  for  "Love  Came  Back  at  Fall  O'  Dew" 
and  "A  Christmas  Folk  Song,"  from  "A  Wayside  Lute,"  by  Lizette 
Woodworth  Reese;  and  for  "Frost  To-night,"  from  "The  Flower  from 
the  Ashes,"  by  Edith  M.  Thomas: 

To  Mr.  Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour  for  "What  Dim  Arcadian  Pas- 
tures" and  "Two  Voices,"  from  "The  Spinning  Woman  of  the  Sky," 
by  Alice  Corbin,  and  for  "The  Most  Sacred  Mountain"  from  "Pro- 
files from  China,"  by  Eunice  Tietjens: 

To  Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch  for  "So  Beautiful  You  are  Indeed,"  from 
"Songs  to  Save  a  Soul,"  by  Irene  Rutherford  McLeod;  for  "Clay 
Hills,"  from  "Growing  Pains,"  by  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer: 

To  Stewart  &  Kidd  Company  for  "The  Strong  Woman,"  from  "The 
Man  Sings,"  by  Roscoe  Gilmore  Stott,  published  by  Stewart  &  Kidd 
Company: 

To  Mr.  A.  M.  Robertson  for  "The  Black  Vulture,"  from  "The 
House  of  Orchids,"  by  George  Sterling;  for  "The  Last  Days,"  from 
"Beyond  the  Breakers,"  by  George  Sterling: 

To  Mr.  David  McKay  for  "Perennial  May,"  from  "Songs  of  Wed- 
lock," by  Thomas  Augustine  Daly;  for  "Da  Leetla  Boy,"  from  "Can- 
zoni,"  by  Thomas  Augustine  Daly: 

To  The  Yale  University  Press  for  "The  Falconer  of  God,"  from 
the  volume  of  the  same  name  by  William  Rose  Benet: 

To  The  Manas  Press  for  "Cinquains,"  from  "Verse,"  by  Adelaide 
Crapsey: 

To  Mr.  James  Terry  White  for  "Canticle,"  from  "City  Pastorals," 
by  William  Griffith: 


xii  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To  Mr.  William  Stanley  Braithwaite  for  "Spring,"  by  John  Gould 
Fletcher;  and  for  "Good  Company,"  by  Karle  Wilson  Baker,  both 
poems  originally  published  in  The  Poetry  Review  and  now  included  in 
The  Golden  Treasury  of  Magazine  Verse: 

To  Messrs.  Duffield  &  Company  for  "The  Vigil  of  Joseph,"  from 
"The  Frozen  Grail,"  by  Elsa  Barker;  for  "June"  and  "Desire  in 
Spring,"  from  "Songs  of  The  Fields,"  by  Francis  Ledwidge: 

To  The  Page  Company  for  "Lord  of  My  Heart's  Elation,"  from 
"The  Green  Book  of  the  Bards,"  by  Bliss  Carman,  copyright,  1903: 

To  Messrs.  Boni  &  Liveright  for  "Calling-One's-Own,"  from 
"The  Path  on  the  Rainbow,"  edited  by  George  Cronyn: 

To  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Company  for  "An  April  Morning," 
from  "April  Airs,"  by  Bliss  Carman,  copyright,  1916,  reprinted  by 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Small,  Maynard  &  Company,  Inc. : 

To  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company  for  "Symbols"  from 
"Poems:  1908-1914,"  by  John  Drinkwater: 

To  Mr.  Richard  G.  Badger  for  "Grandmither,"  from  "April  Twi- 
lights," by  Willa  Sibert  Gather: 

To  the  Woodberry  Society  for  one  sonnet  from  "Ideal  Passion," 
by  George  Edward  Woodberry: 

To  Mr.  John  Hall  Wheelock  for  "Nirvana,"  from  "The  Beloved 
Adventure,"  published  by  Sherman,  French  &  Company: 

To  Mr.  Egmont  Arens  for  a  selection  from  "Night,"  by  James 
Oppenheim: 

To  the  Little  Book  Publishing  Company  for  "A  Woman,"  from 
"Streets  and  Faces,"  by  Scudder  Middleton: 

To  the  Oxford  University  Press,  Toronto,  Canada,  for  "I  Sat 
Among  the  Green  Leaves,"  from  "The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls,"  by 
Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall: 

To  the  Editors  of  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Verse  for  "Tampico,"  by 
Grace  Hazard  Conkling;  for  "  Sunrise  on  Rydal  Water,"  by  John 
Drinkwater;  for  "Indian  Summer,"  by  William  Ellery  Leonard; 
for  "Maternity,"  by  Alice  Meynell;  for  "In  the  Mohave,"  by 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xiii 

Patrick  Orr;  for  "A  Day  for  Wandering,"  by  Clinton  Scollard; 
for  "Who  Loves  the  Rain,"  by  Frances  Shaw;  for  "The  Bacchante 
to  Her  Babe,"  by  Eunice  Tietjens;  for  "The  Bird  and  the  Tree,"  and 
"Santa  Barbara  Beach,"  by  Ridgely  Torrence;  for  "Down  Fifth 
Avenue,"  by  John  Curtis  Underwood;  for  "On  the  Great  Plateau," 
by  Edith  Wyatt: 

To  The  Yale  Review  for  "Ash  Wednesday,"  by  John  Erskine;  and 
for  "Earth,"  by  John  HaU  Wheelock: 

To  The  North  American  Review  for  "Motherhood,"  by  Agnes  Lee: 

To  The  Independent  for  "Phantasm  of  War:  The  Cornucopia  of 
Red  and  Green  Comfits,"  by  Amy  Lowell: 

To  The  Touchstone  for  "The  Time  Clock,"  by  Charles  Hanson 
Towne: 

To  The  Outlook  for  "Night's  Mardi  Gras,"  by  Edward  J.  Wheeler: 
To  The  Nation  for  "Standards,"  by  Charles  Wharton  Stork: 
To  Much  Ado  of  St.  Louis  for  "Rain,  Rain,"  by  Zoe  Akins: 

To  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic  for  "White  Iris,"  by  Pauline  B.  Barring- 
ton: 

To  The  New  York  Sun  for  "  God  You  have  been  Too  Good  to  Me," 
by  Charles  Wharton  Stork: 

To  The  New  York  Times  for  "Epitaph,"  by  Louis  Driscoll: 
To  Mr.  Samuel  Roth  for  his  sonnet: 

The  brief  quotations  from  Clement  Wood's  poetry  are  taken  from 
"Glad  of  Earth,"  published  by  Laurence  J.  Gomme: 

The  brief  quotations  from  the  work  of  Ezra  Pound  are  to  be 
found  in  "  Lustra  "  (Knoff)  and  in  "  Provenca  "  (Small,  Maynard) 
and  in  the  files  of  Poetry  A  Magazine  of  Verse. 

The  thanks  of  the  author  are  due,  also,  to  the  following  publishers 
in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  for  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  follow- 
ing selections  published  by  them: 

To  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Company,  Ltd.,  London,  for  "Transfor- 
mations" and  "The  Wind  Blew  Words,"  from  "Moments  of  Vision," 
by  Thomas  Hardy;  for  "Seal  Lullaby"  and  "Road-Song  of  the 
Bandar-Log,"  from  "The  Jungle  Book,"  by  Rudyard  Kipling;  for 


xiv  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

"Deirdre,"  from  "Songs  from  the  Clay,"  by  James  Stephens;  for  two 
narratives  from  "Fruit-Gathering,"  by  Rabindranath  Tagore;  and 
for  "On  the  Day  when  the  Lotus  Bloomed,"  from  "Gitanjali,"  by 
Rabindranath  Tagore;  for  "The  Song  of  Wandering  Aengus,"  from 
"Poems,"  by  William  Butler  Yeats,  and  for  the  lyric  beginning  "The 
Wind  Blows  out  of  the  Gates  of  Day,"  from  "The  Land  of  Heart's 
Desire,"  by  William  Butler  Yeats: 

To  Messrs.  Constable  &  Company,  Ltd.,  for  "Jim  Jay  "  and  "Sil- 
ver," from  "Peacock  Pie,"  by  Walter  de  la  Mare,  and  for  "Listeners" 
and  "Miss  Loo,"  from  "The  Listeners,"  by  Walter  de  la  Mare;  for 
"I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death,"  from  "Poems,"  by  Alan  Seeger; 
for  "Windmills"  and  brief  quotations  from  poems  by  John  Gould 
Fletcher,  for  "Sea  Gods,"  by  H.  D.,  and  for  "Dawn"  and  "After Two 
Years,"  by  Richard  Aldington,  from  "Some  Imagist  Poets,  1916"  and 
"Some  Imagist  Poets,  1917": 

To  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews  for  "Cargoes"  from  "Ballads"  and  "A 
Consecration,"  from  "Salt  Water  Ballads"  for  "The  End  of  the 
World,"  from  "Chambers  of  Imagery,  Second  Series,"  by  Gordon 
Bottomley;  for  "  Breakfast,"  "  The  Father,"  "  The  Messages  "  and 
"The  Old  Bed,"  from  "Battle  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Wilfrid  Wilson 
Gibson: 

To  Mr.  William  Heinemann  for  "The  Kiss"  and  "Absolution," 
from  "The  Old  Huntsman  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Siegfried  Sassoon; 
for  "Assault  Heroic"  from  "Fairies  and  Fusiliers,"  by  Robert  Graves; 
for  "Ships,"  by  John  Masefield,  and  for  one  sonnet  from  "Lollingdon 
Downs  and  Sonnets,"  by  John  Masefield: 

To  Messrs.  Maunsel  &  Company,  Ltd.,  Dublin,  for  "In  the  Poppy 
Field,"  from  "The  Hill  of  Vision,"  by  James  Stephens;  for  "The  Old 
Woman,"  from  "Irishry,"  by  Joseph  Campbell;  for  "The  Furrow  and 
the  Hearth"  and  "An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads,"  from  "Wild  Earth 
and  Other  Poems,"  by  Padraic  Colum: 

To  John  Lane,  The  Bodley  Head,  London,  for  "The  Iron  Music" 
and  "The  Old  Houses  of  Flanders,"  from  "On  Heaven  and  Poems 
Written  on  Active  Service,"  by  Ford  Madox  Hueffer;  for  "I  Sat 
Among  the  Green  Leaves,"  from  "The  Lamp  of  Poor  Souls,"  by 
Marjorie  L.  C.  PickthaU: 

To  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus  for  "So  Beautiful  You  are  Indeed," 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  xv 

from  "Songs  to  Save  a  Soul,"  by  Irene  Rutherford  McLeod,  and  for 
"Nearer"  and  "Out  of  Trenches:  The  Barn,  Twilight,"  by  Robert 
Nichols: 

To  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons  for  "The  Common  Street,"  from 
"A  Chant  of  Love  for  England  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Helen  Gray 
Cone;  for  "Path  Flower,"  from  the  volume  of  the  same  name  by 
Olive  Tilford  Dargan: 

To  Messrs.  Sidgwick  and  Jackson  for  two  sonnets,  "The  Dead,"  by 
Rupert  Brooke,  and  for  "Symbols"  and  "Sunrise  on  Rydal  Water," 
by  John  Drinkwater: 

To  Messrs.  Hodder  &  Stoughton  for  "Trees,"  "Martin,"  and 
"Rouge  Bouquet,"  by  Joyce  Kilmer: 

To  Mr.  A.  C.  Fifield  for  "Days  Too  Short,"  "The  Rain"  and 
"Nature's  Friend,"  by  William  H.  Davies: 

To  Mr.  Grant  Richards  for  "The  Runner  in  the  Skies,"  from 
"Songs  for  the  New  Age,"  by  James  Oppenheim: 

To  Messrs.  Burns  and  Oates  for  "At  Night"  and  "Maternity,"  by 
Alice  Meynell,  and  for  "Lepanto,"  by  G.  K.  Chesterton: 

To  Messrs  William  Blackwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh,  London,  for 
"Forty  Singing  Seamen,"  by  Alfred  Noyes: 

To  Messrs.  Herbert  Jenkins,  Ltd.,  for  "Desire  in  Spring"  and 
"June,"  from  "Songs  of  the  Fields,"  by  Francis  Ledwidge: 

To  Mr.  A.  T.  Stevens  and  The  Flying  Fame  for  "The  Bull,"  by 
Ralph  Hodgson: 

To  Mr.  Martin  Seeker  for  "The  Dying  Patriot,"  from  "The 
Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand  "  by  James  Elroy  Flecker: 

To  The  British  Review  for  "The  Song  of  the  Full  Catch,"  by  Con- 
stance Lindsay  Skinner: 

The  thanks  of  the  authors  are  due,  also,  to  the  distinguished  poets 
who  contributed  to  the  chapter  on  "How  Poems  are  Made,"  William 
Rose  Ben6t,  Padraic  Colum,  Sara  Teasdale,  Harriet  Monroe  and 
Edwin  Markham: 

And  thanks  are  due,  also,  to  Mary  Fanton  Roberts,  Editor  of  The 
Touchstone,  for  permission  to  reprint  portions  of  articles  that  appeared 
for  the  first  time  in  her  magazine. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  READER'S  APPROACH  TO  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY i 

Jim  Jay 14 

PART  I 
THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 

THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM 17 

Patterns 33 

Renascence 36 

Indian  Summer 41 

The  Dying  Patriot 43 

Cinquains 44 

The  Cedars 44 

Tampico 45 

«Who  Loves  the  Rain 45 

A  Cyprian  Woman:  Greek  Folk  Song 45 

Psalm 46 

Deirdre 47 

An  April  Morning 48 

The  Answer 48 

What  Dim  Arcadian  Pastures 49 

ORGANIC  RHYTHM 50 

The  Santa  F6  Trail — A  Humoresque 67 

Coming  to  Port 71 

^Monotone 72 

The  Bombardment 72 

The  Virgin's  Slumber  Song 75 

Seal  Lullaby 76 

The  Listeners 76 

Remembrance:  Greek  Folk  Song 77 

The  Bacchante  to  Her  Babe 78 

The  Most-Sacred  Mountain 80 

xvii 


xviii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Song  of  the  Full  Catch 81 

Little  Things 81 

IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS 83 

Cargoes 96 

The  Bull 97 

Sea  Gods 1^2 

Windmills 104 

Lincoln,  the  Man  of  the  People 105 

Standards 106 

Pandora's  Song 107 

A  White  Iris 107 

"Frost  to-night" 108 

Silver 108 

From  "Variations" 109 

An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads 109 

The  Dark  Cavalier no 

Said  a  Blade  of  Grass no 

Symbols in 

THE  DICTION  or  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 112 

Her  Words 131 

The  Song  of  Wandering  Aengus 132 

Grieve  not  for  Beauty 133 

Old  Age 133 

The  End  of  the  World 134 

The  Old  Bed 135 

Sunrise  on  Rydal  Water 136 

Leaves 137 

Spring 138 

In  the  Poppy  Field : 138 

Mystery 139 

The  Gum-Gatherer 139 

At  Night  (To  W.  M.) 141 

From  "  Variations" 141 

Daybreak 143 

Vistas 144 

Certain  American  Poets 144 

After  Sunset 145 

Ships 146 


CONTENTS  xix 

PAGE 

CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS 149 

Song 159 

Forty  Singing  Seamen 159 

Ash  Wednesday 163 

Around  the  Sun 168 

The  Flight 170 

"My  Lady  Ne'er  Hath  Given  Herself  to  Me" 171 

Path  Flower 172 

CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS '. .  175 

From  "Night" 188 

Clay  Hills 191 

Cool  Tombs 192 

-Loam 192 

Idealists 193 

Old  Manuscript 193 

How  POEMS  ARE  MADE 194 

PART  II 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 

DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES 211 

A  Consecration 228 

The  Leaden-Eyed 228 

Caliban  in  the  Coal  Mines 229 

The  Common  Street 229 

Cherry  Way 230 

Broadway 231 

The  Flower  Factory 231 

The  Time-Clock 232 

Night's  Mardi  Gras 233 

The  Fugitives 234 

Roses  in  the  Subway 234 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe 235 

"Scum  o'  the  Earth" 237 

From  "The  New  World" 239 

PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR 242 

I.  The  Dead 253 

II.  The  Dead 253 


xx  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dawn 254 

The  Father 255 

Breakfast 255 

The  Kiss 256 

Absolution 256 

The  Assault  Heroic 257 

Out  of  Trenches:  The  Barn,  Twilight 258 

Nearer 259 

The  Old  Houses  of  Flanders 260 

"I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death" 261 

Draw  the  Sword,  O  Republic 262 

Down  Fifth  Avenue 263 

The  Cornucopia  of  Red  and  Green  Comfits. 265 

Spring  Sows  Her  Seeds 268 

Rouge  Bouquet 269 

LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 272 

Calling-One's-Own 282 

Aladdin  and  the  Jinn 282 

My  Light  with  Yours 284 

"I  Am  in  Love  with  High,  Far-seeing  Places" 284 

"There  are  Strange  Shadows  Fostered  of  the  Moon" 285 

How  Much  of  Godhood 285 

After  Two  Years, 286 

Nirvana / 286 

Perennial  May. 287 

"So  Beautiful  You  Are  Indeed" 287 

"I  Sat  among  the  Green  Leaves" 288 

"Grandmither,  think  not  I  Forget" 288 

Frost  in  Spring 289 

Patrins 290 

Rain,  Rain! 290 

Homage 290 

A  Lynmouth  Widow *. 291 

Love  Is  a  Terrible  Thing 292 

Love  Song 292 

Love  Came  Back  at  Fall  o'  Dew 293 

Peace 293 

I  Would  Live  in  Your  Love 294 


CONTENTS  xxi 

PAGE 

The  Lamp 294 

Maternity 294 

Motherhood 295 

Sacrifice '  296 

The  House  and  the  Road 296 

My  Mirror 297 

RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 298 

Lord  of  My  Heart's  Elation 306 

The  Falconer  of  God 307 

The  Path  of  the  Stars 308 

"God,  You  Have  Been  too  Good  to  Me" 309 

Two  Voices 309 

Invocation 310 

Trees 310 

Good  Company 311 

Two  Narratives  from  "Fruit-Gathering" 311 

The  Birth 312 

A  Christmas  Folk-Song 313 

The  Vigil  of  Joseph 313 

Child 314 

Comrade  Jesus 314 

An  Unbeliever 315 

The  Jew  to  Jesus 316 

The  Ballad  of  the  Cross 317 

NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 318 

Earth 328 

"The  Wind  Blew  Words" 330 

Transformations 330 

Penetralia 331 

-The  Winds 332 

The  Furrow  and  the  Hearth 333 

Desire  in  Spring 334 

June ' 335 

"I  Could  not  Sleep  for  Thinking  of  the  Sky" 336 

A  Day  for  Wandering 336 

The  Sound  of  the  Trees 337 

Epitaph 338 

Nature's  Friend 339 


xxii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Mountain  Song 340 

Santa  Barbara  Beach 340 

In  the  Mohave 341 

The  Last  Days 342 

The  Black  Vulture 343 

On  the  Great  Plateau 343 

The  Morning  Song  of  Senlin 344 

Canticle 346 

"All  Vision  Fades,  but  Splendor  Does  not  Fail" 347 

PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 348 

Martin 362 

Miss  Loo 363 

An  Old  Man's  Winter  Night 364 

Richard  Cory 365 

Miniver  Cheevy 365 

Flammonde 366 

The  Bird  and  the  Tree 369 

Merchants  from  Cathay 371 

Isaiah  Beethoven 373 

Anne  Rutledge 374 

Lucinda  Matlock 374 

Da  Leetla  Boy 375 

CHILDREN  AND  POETRY 377 

The  Child's  Heritage 387 

Lyric  from  "The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire" 388 

Road-Song  of  the  Bandar-Log 388 

Up  a  Hill  and  a  Hill 389 

The  Song  of  Conn  the  Fool.  .' 390 

Brown's  Descent  or  the  Willy-Nilly  Slide 391 

The  Broncho  That  Would  not  Be  Broken 393 

Days  Too  Short 395 

The  Rain 395 

Lepanto 396 

Postscript 403 

Index  of  Poems 443 

Index  of  Authors 449 

Index  of  Poems  in  Postscript 452 

Index  of  Authors  in  Postscript 453 


NEW  VOICES 


NEW   VOICES 

THE    READER'S     APPROACH    TO    CONTEMPORARY 

POETRY 

LONG  ago,  in  Jerusalem,  was  a  pool  called  Bethesda.  In  our 
Bibles  we  find  a  quaint  folk  story  of  the  life-giving  power  of  this 
pool.  From  time  to  time  an  angel  "troubled  the  waters,"  and 
then  the  sick  and  the  infirm  who  went  down  first  into  the  pool 
were  healed  of  their  infirmities. 

Poetry  is  like  the  Pool  of  Bethesda.  Until  they  have  been 
plunged  into  eddies  of  rhythmical  and  imaginative  beauty, 
many  human  intellects  are,  to  a  certain  extent,  sick  and  infirm. 
Sometimes  the  waters  of  the  pool  seem  to  be  still,  so  that  we 
are  not  aware  of  the  life  laboring  in  the  spirit  of  the  race  to 
create  waves  and  ripples  of  sound  and  sense  "by  which  we  may 
be  refreshed  and  strengthened.  Then,  after  such  periods  of 
rest,  comes  the  genius,  or  the  group  of  strong  singers,  and  the 
waters  are  troubled.  Those  who  go  quickly  into  this  life- 
giving  movement  may  find  healing  and  regeneration,  sharing 
the  greatest  joy  of  their  period  and  of  its  dynamic  life.  Others, 
fearing  that  they  will  be  accused  of  bad  taste  if  they  take  any 
interest  in  work  that  may  not  "live,"  do  not  hasten  to  take 
advantage  of  the  troubling  of  the  waters;  and,  as  a  result  of 
their  procrastination,  their  intellectual  hauteur,  they  miss  the 
invigorating  gladness  of  hearing  the  greatest  singers  of  their 
own  period. 

Ten  years  ago,  in  this  country,  the  waters  were  still.  Many 
educated  persons  supposed  that  poetry  had  died  an  unnatural 
death  with  the  passing  of  Tennyson.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
our  intellectual  leaders  allowed  themselves  to  feel  a  restrained 


VOICES 

enthusiasm  for  the  work  of  William  Vaughn  Moody,  Bliss 
Carman,  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  and  a  few  others,  most  people 
were  not  greatly  interested  in  contemporary  poetry.  Indigent 
and  neglected  persons  who  lived  on  top  of  the  top  story  still 
wrote  it.  A  few  old-fashioned  people  of  blessed  memory  kept 
scrap-books,  although  they  were  somewhat  ashamed  of  the 
laudable  habit.  But  no  influential  organizations  and  specialized 
magazines  had  done  much  for  poetry  as  an  art.  Publishers 
said  that  poetry  could  not  be  sold.  We  were  told  that  the  age 
of  poetry  had  gone  never  to  return  and  that,  in  so  far  as  this 
country  was  concerned,  poetry  would  always  be  a  dead  art. 

These  were  the  words  of  false  prophets,  as  tune  has  proved. 
John  Masefield,  visiting  this  country  in  1918,  said  that  poetry, 
as  an  art,  seemed  to  be  very  much  alive  among  us.  "America 
is  making  ready  for  a  great  poet,"  he  said.  "In  England,  in 
the  days  before  Chaucer,  many  people  were  reading  and  writing 
verse.  Then  he  came.  The  same  intense  interest  in  poetry 
was  shown  again  just  before  the  coming  of  Shakespeare.  And 
now,  in  this  country,  you  are  all  writing  poems  or  enjoying 
them.  You  are  making  ready  for  a  master.  A  great  poetic 
revival  is  in  progress." 

Unprejudiced  persons  who  have  watched  the  trend  of  literary 
events  for  the  past  decade,  who  have  shared  the  intellectual 
and  aesthetic  impulses  of  our  times,  can  hardly  fail  to  agree  with 
Mr.  Masefield.  To-day  men  and  women  from  all  classes,  men 
and  women  of  many  temperaments,  are  reading  poetry,  and 
talking  about  it;  they  are  writing  it  themselves.  Many  of 
them  have  lost  that  furtive  and  fortunate  self-consciousness 
which  used  to  save  the  tyro  from  the  indiscretion  of  reading 
his  perfervid  effusions  to  his  friends.  Poets  have  persuaded 
the  public  that  they  are  competent  to  talk  about  their  own 
craft  and  to  read  their  own  poems.  Publishers  welcome  new 
poets.  Many  poets  have  been  discovered  and  have  made  sub- 
stantial reputations  within  a  period  of  about  ten  years.  Of 
these  the  most  notable  are  John  Masefield  and  Rupert  Brooke 
in  England,  Robert  Frost,  Vachel  Lindsay,  Amy  Lowell,  Edgar 


CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  3 

Lee  Masters  and  Sara  Teasdale  in  the  United  States,  and 
Rabindranath  Tagore,  poet  of  Bengal,  who  writes  in  his  own 
language  and  also  in  English  and  is  a  winner  of  a  Nobel  prize. 

We  all  know  that  nothing  grows  where  nothing  has  been 
planted.  This  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  great  changes 
in  the  thought  and  emotion  of  a  great  people  are  not  fortuitous. 
There  have  been  three  good  and  sufficient  reasons  for  the  growth 
of  interest  in  poetry. 

For  the  first  time  in  our  history,  we  American  people  are 
coming  into  our  own  aesthetic  selfhood  and  consciousness.  For 
several  generations  we  were  occupied  with  the  conquest  of  the 
continent  and  the  development  of  material  resources.  This 
made  necessary  an  extraordinary  progress  in  the  use  of  the 
practical  intellect,  but  afforded  little  leisure  for  the  enjoyment 
of  beauty.  For  a  long  time  after  the  colonial  period  our  people 
had  to  be  drilled  for  efficiency  in  practical  life.  We  worshipped 
utility  and  morals.  We  thought  of  the  arts  as  handmaids  to 
ethics,  philosophy  or  reform.  To-day  we  have  outgrown  this 
" handmaid"  theory  of  art.  We  realize  that  Art  is  a  real 
princess,  to  be  loved  for  the  sake  of  her  beauty  and  served  for 
the  sake  of  life  and  mankind.  We  rejoice,  as  never  before,  in 
music.  We  dream  dreams  of  a  "city  beautiful"  and  of  a  dis- 
tinctive national  architecture.  We  have  rediscovered  the  dance. 
We  have  rediscovered  folklore  and  fairyland.  We  have  begun 
to  express  ourselves,  our  peculiar  national  consciousness,  our 
times,  our  life,  in  patterns  of  beauty. 

Another  reason  for  the  growth  of  interest  in  poetry  is  to  be 
found  in  the  fact  that  a  number  of  critics,  editors  and  pro- 
fessors have  been  working  for  the  art  as  for  a  cause.  Jessie  B. 
Rittenhouse,  preeminent  among  anthologists,  began  working 
for  poetry  in  Boston  in  1900.  William  Stanley  Braithwaite, 
Edward  J.  Wheeler,  Harriet  Monroe,  Jeanne  Robert  Foster 
and  William  Marion  Reedy  of  kindly  memory  have  all  done 
what  they  could  to  get  attention  and  sympathy  for  poets. 
Whether  we  agree  or  disagree  with  them  as  critics,  whether  we 
like  or  dislike  their  policies,  we  must  admit  that  their  enthusiasm 


VOICES 

has  been  valuable.  Nowadays  professors  in  our  colleges  are 
helping  young  people  interested  in  poetry  to  organize  societies 
for  study,  criticism  and  artistic  stimulation.  Small  anthologies 
of  the  verse  of  students,  and  even  booklets  by  individual  under- 
graduates have  been  published.  Leland  Stanford  University, 
The  University  of  California,  Yale  University,  Harvard  Uni- 
versity and  a  number  of  others,  doubtless,  have  good  reason 
to  be  proud  of  their  student-poets.  Nor  is  the  attention  of 
scholars  focussed  solely  upon  poetry  of  the  past,  as  it  once  was. 
To  read  books  like  "The  Kinds  of  Poetry"  (Duffield)  by  John 
Erskine  is  to  realize  that.  This  is  the  age  of  anthologists.  It 
is  possible  to  find  collections  of  poems  on  countless  themes. 
Burton  E.  Stevenson's  plump  volume,  "The  Home  Book  of 
Verse"  and  Mrs.  Waldo  Richards'  perennially  pleasant  collec- 
tions are  signs  of  the  times. 

The  critics,  professors  and  authors,  however,  could  have  done 
little  or  nothing  to  interest  readers  in  poetry,  if  the  work  of 
contemporary  poets  had  been  dull  and  commonplace.  By 
clever  advertising  a  market  man  may  secure  purchasers  for  a 
stock  of  green  peaches,  but  no  amount  of  advertising  will  lure 
back  customers  who  have  been  disappointed.  This  brings  us  to 
a  consideration  of  the  third  reason  for  the  revival  of  interest  in 
poetry,  and  it  is  by  far  the  most  important  reason,  —  the  fact 
that  American  poets  are  offering  us  more  good  poetry  to-day 
than  has  ever  been  produced  at  any  other  period  in  our  history. 
True,  we  have  no  Poe,  no  Whitman,  no  Emerson,  no  Lanier. 
We  have  no  single  colossal  genius.  But  we  have  many  strong, 
fine  talents.  In  this  book  I  shall  hope  to  help  the  reader  to 
approach  their  work  with  confidence,  sympathy  and  under- 
standing. 

I  should  like  to  believe  that  this  book  will  enable  readers  to 
find  in  poetry  a  new  solace,  recreation  and  inspiration,  just  the 
things  which  they  might  expect  to  find  in  music  or  in  a  new  and 
beautiful  friendship.  I  should  like  the  book  to  be  exactly  what 
it  is  called,  an  introduction  to  contemporary  poetry;  in  other 
words,  the  beginning  of  an  adventure  in  acquaintance.  I 


CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  5 

should  like  to  think  that  readers  of  this  book  will  go  on  reading 
about  contemporary  poetry  after  they  have  finished  it,  and  that 
they  will  find  such  stimulating  and  provocative  works  as  "The 
New  Era  In  American  Poetry"  by  Louis  Untermeyer  (Holt), 
"Scepticisms"  by  Conrad  Aiken  (Knopf),  and  "Tendencies  In 
Modern  American  Poetry"  by  Amy  Lowell  (Houghton  MirHin). 
Miss  Lowell  discusses  only  a  few  of  her  contemporaries,  but 
discusses  them  in  detail  and  gives  interesting  biographical  data. 
The  other  two  books  cover  more  ground.  All  three  are  for 
readers  already  familiar  with  poetry  of  the  past  and  of  the 
present. 

Unfortunately,  the  approach  to  poetry  is  not  always  made 
easy  for  the  reader.  Every  day  in  the  year  more  false  things 
than  true  are  said  about  it.  Poets  are  frequently  misunder- 
stood and  misinterpreted  by  creditable  persons  quite  uncon- 
scious of  their  own  polite  mendacity.  Superstitions  flourish 
like  weeds  in  a  field  or  wild  vines  in  a  jungle.  A  dense  clutter 
of  nonsense,  spurious  scholarship,  pedantry,  and  fatuity  must 
be  cut  away  in  the  beautiful  grove  so  that  men  and  women 
may  see  the  big  trees.  Because  this  thicket  chokes  the  way 
many  people  who  might  otherwise  come  to  know  the  full  sweet- 
ness and  power  of  poetry  are  held  back  from  the  enjoyment  of  it. 

The  most  common  of  these  superstitions  is  the  belief  that 
poetry  "just  comes"  to  anyone  at  any  time,  to  society  queen 
or  labor  leader,  and  that  anyone  to  whom  it  "just  comes"  can 
write  it.  We  may  know  that  children  can  learn  to  play  the 
violin  and  piano  only  by  long  practice.  We  may  realize  that 
the  painter  must  learn  how  to  use  paint  and  brush  and  canvas 
before  he  can  achieve  a  masterpiece.  But  it  is  commonly  sup- 
posed that  very  little  emotional  or  intellectual  labor  is  involved 
in  the  making  of  a  poem  and  that  no  discipline  is  required  for 
the  maker.  Poetry  is  often  thought  to  be  a  painless  twilight 
sleep  out  of  which  beauty  is  accidentally  born. 

In  all  the  universe  there  are  no  such  accidents,  probably. 
Perhaps  the  chain  of  cause  and  effect  is  linked  together  in  little 
things  and  in  great  things,  always.  Perhaps  that  which  seems 


6  NEW  VOICES 

to  be  accidental  is  really  the  result  or  fruition  of  causes  that 
were  the  results  of  other  causes.  However  that  may  be,  biog- 
raphies of  great  poets  tell  of  their  long  and  severe  laboring. 
The  best  poets  of  to-day  work  hard  as  did  their  peers  in  days 
gone  by.  Robert  Frost,  to  be  sure,  writes  rapidly  and  seldom 
revises  his  successful  poems.  But  for  years  he  wrote  verse 
that  served  only  as  practice  work  and  was  never  offered  to  the 
world.  Witter  Bynner  worked  for  seven  or  eight  years  on 
"The  New  World"  before  he  gave  it  to  the  public,  and  it  was 
revised  seventeen  or  eighteen  times.  Carl  Sandburg  writes 
and  rewrites.  Vachel  Lindsay  makes  his  social  and  choral 
poetry  very  slowly  and  is  grateful  for  constructive  criticism. 
He  has  rewritten  some  of  his  poems  as  many  as  forty  or  fifty 
times.  The  poet  is  truly  what  Lord  Dunsany  calls  him,  "an 
artificer  in  ideas"  and  "the  chief  of  workers." 

Moreover,  he  is  an  artificer  in  rhythms  and  rhymes  and  in 
the  qualities  and  associations  of  words,  a  student  of  sound  as 
combined  with  sense.  The  idea,  the  mood,  which  is  the  raw 
material  of  a  poem,  may  "just  come"  to  any  person  at  any 
time.  A  poem  may  be  born  of  a  bit  of  color,  a  scent,  a  vague 
whim,  or  of  a  great  spiritual  experience.  This  raw  material  of 
poetry  belongs  to  all  men  and  women  and,  if  it  were,  in  and  of 
itself,  the  sum  total  of  poetry,  all  persons  would  be  poets  and 
all  poets  would  be  as  great  as  Shakespeare.  But  in  order  that 
this  raw  material  may  be  made,  or  in  order  that  it  may  grow 
into  poems,  perfect  and  unalterable  works  of  beauty,  the  artist- 
poet  must  cleanse  it  of  all  that  is  irrelevant  and  superfluous, 
must  give  it  its  own  appropriate  luster  and  completeness.  In 
such  measure  as  he  is  a  true  artist  the  poem  will  be  strong,  com- 
pelling, and  even  apparently  artless,  to  generations  of  readers. 
The  poet  pays  the  price  of  the  reader's  satisfaction.  The  pay- 
ing of  that  price,  in  toil  and  tears,  and  pain,  is  his  privilege  and 
joy.  That  is  why  only  the  few  who  give  themselves  up  to  the 
great  task  with  devotion  can  learn  to  make  great  poems.  I 
once  heard  Edwin  Markham  say  that  poems  which  "just  come" 
to  the  ordinary  person  out  of  the  circumambient  ether  should 


CHARLES   WHARTON   STORK 


CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  7 

usually  be  returned  whence  they  came !  The  person  who  goes 
strutting  about  with  all  the  air  of  being  a  genius  and  saying 
that  he  does  not  need  to  work,  that  he  writes  "by  inspiration," 
is  saying,  in  effect,  "  Michelangelo,  Beethoven,  Shakespeare,  of 
course,  had  to  labor  for  their  success,  poor  souls !  It  is  quite 
unnecessary  for  me !" 

But  although  only  a  few  of  us  can  make  great  poetry,  all  of 
us  who  are  capable  of  warm,  quick  sympathy,  and  who  love 
beauty,  can  learn  to  enjoy  poetry.  Sympathy  is  the  one 
personal  quality  without  which  nobody  can  go  far  in  the  love 
and  understanding  of  the  arts,  and  with  which  anybody  can  go 
a  long  way.  The  inflexible  soul  will  never  be  touched  by  the 
beauty  of  any  masterpiece.  Without  the  capacity  for  sharing 
other  people's  moods,  their  love,  joy,  irony,  rancor,  sorrow  and 
enthusiasm,  their  acrid  dislikes  and  their  reasons  for  laughter, 
their  pleasure  in  color,  texture,  form,  scent  and  movement, 
none  of  us  can  get  much  from  poetry.  For  without  this  capacity 
none  of  us  can  get  much  out  of  life.  Poetry  is  simply  the  shar- 
ing of  life  in  patterns  of  rhythmical  words.  It  is  not  an  intricate 
puzzle-game  for  sophisticated  intellects.  It  is,  like  music,  like 
painting,  a  natural,  joyous  art  of  communication,  concerned 
with  feelings  that  we  all  share  and  appealing  to  sympathies 
engendered  and  fostered  by  the  imagination.  No  person 
capable  of  sympathy  and  the  love  of  beauty  need  be  frightened 
away  from  poetry  by  the  abracadabra  of  critics. 

Poetry  is  everybody's  wonderland.  It  is  for  the  business 
man,  tired  or  rested,  and  for  his  wife.  It  is  for  rich  employers 
(for  the  fortification  of  their  souls !)  and  for  poor  employees 
(for  the  comfort  of  their  hearts !) .  It  is  only  required  of  us 
that  we  desire  to  perceive  and  enjoy  and  understand  what  is 
beautiful. 

What  is  beautiful  is  not  what  is  pretty.  Many  persons 
erroneously  suppose  that  they  have  found  beauty  when  they 
have  taken  pleasure  in  prettiness.  This  makes  it  necessary  to 
differentiate  between  the  pretty  and  the  beautiful.  Yet  one 
might  spend  a  whole  day  or  many  days  at  this  labor,  giving 


8  NEW  VOICES 

concrete  illustrations,  and  still  fail  to  show  the  lover  of  pretti- 
ness  why  he  is  not  a  lover  of  beauty.  The  lover  of  beauty 
would  know  without  explanation.  (Therefore  it  is  necessary 
to  say  only  this,  that  to  the  lover  of  prettiness  love  is  a  little 
frosted  cake,  joy  a  luscious  bonbon,  sorrow  a  dose  of  bitter 
medicine.  !  Prettiness  is  ephemeral,  but  beauty  is  powerful 
and  memorable.  Prettiness  is  external  to  us  and  has  no  more 
effect  upon  our  lives  than  a  pebble  thrown  into  a  stream  has 
upon  the  swirl  of  waters.  But  beauty  changes  us.  The  current 
of  our  lives  runs  swifter  and  clearer  for  it,  perhaps,  or  deeper, 
or  with  a  richer  music.  Prettiness  is  pleasant  and  negligible, 
a  light  coquette.  But  beauty  is  strong,  profound,  austere,  a 
great  maternal  force.  Those  who  desire  what  is  pretty  will 
prefer  the  lightest  of  literature.  Those  who  desire  beauty  will 
find  poetry. 

If  he  really  wishes  to  seek  beauty  in  poetry,  the  greatest 
difficulty  for  the  new  reader  of  contemporary  verse  will  be  found 
in  the  fact  that  it  is  not  just  like  the  poetry  to  which  he  has 
been  accustomed  in  the  past.  Many  persons  like  the  poetry 
of  Tennyson  and  Longfellow  or  of  Swinburne  and  Keats,  chiefly 
because  they  have  been  accustomed  to  it.  A  particular  kind 
of  poetry  means  poetry  to  them.  They  have  taken  it  habitually 
and  for  granted  as  they  have  taken  coffee  for  breakfast.  Be- 
cause the  best  contemporary  poetry  is  no  more  like  the  poetry 
of  Tennyson  and  Longfellow  than  nectar  is  like  the  matutinal 
coffee,  the  strange  flavor  of  it  is  alarming  at  the  first  taste,  and 
timorous  persons,  afraid  of  the  new  beauty,  run  away  without 
taking  enough  of  a  taste  to  know  what  it  is  really  like. 

To  reassure  them  we  may  say  that  what  was  admirable  in  the 
work  of  Tennyson  is  as  admirable  to-day  as  it  ever  was,  but 
that  it  is  not  necessary  for  all  poetry  to  be  like  Tennyson's  in 
spirit  and  manner.  Nor  is  it  desirable.  We  may  have  coffee 
for  breakfast  and  nectar  also.  No  modern  poet  worthy  of  the 
name  would  have  it  otherwise.  For  the  best  poetry  of  our 
times  has  grown  out  of  the  life  of  our  times,  which  life,  in  turn, 
grew  out  of  the  times  that  preceded  it.  The  love  of  the  elder 


CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  n 

of  the  best  contemporary  speech,  although  narrative  and  dra- 
matic poetry  must  be  true,  of  course,  to  the  characters  presented. 
All  literary  affectations,  high-flown  verbiage  and  conventional 
formulae  are  to  be  avoided. 

The  contemporary  poet  demands  absolute  freedom  in  his 
choice  of  themes.  He  knows  that  his  choice  will  be  determined 
by  the  quality  of  his  own  personality.  Anything  which  fires 
his  spirit  seems  to  him  to  be  a  fit  subject  for  a  poem.  He  will 
write  about  a  guttering  candle,  or  about  the  Pleiades,  at  his 
pleasure. 

All  good  poetry  is  written  to  be  read  aloud.  Nobody  has 
ever  read  a  poem  until  he  has  read  it  with  his  own  voice  for  the 
pleasure  of  his  own  ears.  Poets  and  critics  can  get  a  fairly  good 
idea  of  the  sound  of  words  by  seeing  them  on  a  page,  as  a 
musician  can  get  an  idea  of  music  seen  in  notation,  because  they 
have  had  much  experience  in  reading  poetry.  But  for  most 
people  sounds  must  be  sounded  if  they  are  to  be  keenly  felt. 

Poetry  made  in  accordance  with  these  principles  should  be 
good.  A  large  part  of  the  work  done  in  the  past  decade  has 
genuine  merit  of  one  kind  or  another. 

Having  said  as  much  as  this  in  favor  of  contemporary  poetry, 
let  me  say  a  few  words  of  the  dangers  threatening.  First  there 
is  controversy.  Now  intelligent  controversy  between  critics 
may  be  entertaining  and  instructive  —  for  the  public.  But 
angry  controversy  between  poets  is  very  bad  for  poets,  and 
consequently,  for  poetry.  One  critic  speaks  of  the  "feral 
competition"  of  contemporary  poets  already  recognized  and 
established  in  the  regard  of  the  public  and  of  their  efforts  to 
get  audiences  through  controversy  us  if  this  were  a  necessary 
thing  and  something  to  be  taken  for  granted.  Is  there  any 
feral  competition  among  poets  of  any  importance?  Can  there 
be  any  ?  If  a  man  be  capable  of  making  good  poetry,  is  he,  by 
the  mere  making  and  printing  of  it,  in  competition  with  any- 
body at  all?  I  think  not. 

Competition  does  not  exist  except  in  kind.  Grocers  compete 
because  they  sell  the  same  things.  But  any  poet  of  importance 


12  NEW  VOICES 

is  a  personality  unique  in  literature.  He  writes  as  nobody  else 
has  written,  fills  a  place  in  the  world  that  nobody  else  can  fill, 
secures  an  audience  of  his  own  that  nobody  else  can  take  from 
him,  that  nobody  else  can  please  in  just  the  same  way,  and  lives 
or  dies,  finally,  in  the  mind  of  the  race,  by  virtue  of  his  own 
power  and  nobody  else's.  When  he  has  been  published  a  poet 
may  have  inferiors,  equals  and  superiors,  but  he  has  no  rivals. 

What,  then,  can  controversy  do  for  him?  It  can  sell  a  few 
more  copies  of  his  books,  but  not  enough  to  help  him  greatly 
if  he  be  poor.  It  can  make  contemporary  critics  aware  of  him, 
but  their  opinions  are  quite  as  likely  as  not  to  be  contradicted 
by  other  critics  a  few  years  hence.  The  poet  who  puts  his  faith 
in  controversy  is  strangely  meek.  He  believes  more  in  other 
people's  power  to  help  or  hinder  his  work  than  in  the  power  of 
his  own  work  gradually  to  remake  people's  minds  for  them. 
Or  else  he  lives  for  the  reward  of  the  moment  and  is  willing  to 
take  his  wages  in  small  change.  I  am  making  no  plea  for  the 
human  sensitive-plant  that  cannot  bear  contact  with  the  world. 
A  poet  must  be  a  human  being  and  as  a  human  being  he  has  a 
right,  at  times,  to  explain  himself.  But  anger  is  always  a 
devastating  emotion  and  wastes  his  creative  energy.  If  critics 
have  been  careless  or  malicious,  the  best  rebuke  is  a  new  work 
of  beauty  which  other  critics  are  certain  to  admire.  The  public 
can  do  something  valuable  for  poetry  in  America  by  giving  at- 
tention to  poets  who  never  indulge  in  controversy. 

Another  danger  even  more  to  be  feared  is  the  love  of  novelty 
for  its  own  sake,  made  evident  in  the  verse  of  the  period.  When 
the  revival  of  interest  in  poetry  began,  in  1911,  or  thereabouts, 
we  needed  stimulants.  We  had  grown  accustomed  to  lifeless 
and  innocuous  verse.  Vital  originality  was  the  right  stimulant, 
of  course,  and  we  found  it  soon  in  the  work  of  a  number  of  new 
poets. 

To-day  too  much  is  being  written  and  admired  that  is  merely 
novel.  The  nine  days'  wonder  is  perpetrated  and  reverently 
worshipped  for  nine  days.  The  perpetrator  puts  his  faith  in 
shock,  the  resounding  impact  of  mind  on  mind.  He  does  not 


CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  13 

realize  that  many  things  have  never  been  said  in  the  past  simply 
because  they  were  not  worth  saying.  He  confuses  a  public  not 
quite  ready  to  discriminate  between  his  work  and  a  vitally 
original  book  like  "The  Spoon  River  Anthology"  in  which 
shock  is  a  natural  element  in  the  life  described,  and  therefore 
a  part  of  the  story.  Poets  do  not  live  by  shock  alone. 

Indeed,  George  Edward  Woodberry  wisely  tells  us  that  all 
genius  of  the  first  rank  is  to  be  found  in  the  highway  of  life, 
"not  turning  aside  to  the  eccentric,  the  sensational,  the  ab- 
normal, the  brutal,  the  base,"  and  that  "life-experience  spiritual- 
ized is  the  formula  of  all  great  literature."  (See  "The  Torch," 
"Literary  Essays"  and  "Heart  of  Man"  published  by  Har- 
court,  Brace  &  Howe.) 

John  Livingston  Lowes,  in  his  admirable  "Convention  and 
Revolt  in  Poetry"  (Houghton  Mifflin),  after  admitting  and 
describing  the  "logic  of  the  recoil  from  the  banal  to  the  outrt" 
says,  nevertheless,  that  we  must  beware  of  the  strangeness 
that  is  too  strange.  He  sums  the  problem  up  in  these  words : 

"  It  is  obvious  that  to  stress  to  the  limit  the  element  of  strange- 
ness in  beauty  is  to  run  a  line  of  cleavage  sharply  through  the 
general  community.  What  I  should  like  to  write  over  the  door 
of  every  stronghold  of  revolt  is  the  motto  over  the  gateway  of 
the  castle  in  the  folk-tale :  '  Be  bold,  be  bold  —  but  not  too 
bold!'  To  which  the  insurgents  will  promptly  and  properly 
retort,  with  Hamlet,  'Be  not  too  tame,  neither!'  And  both 
will  be  right." 

Says  Bliss  Perry,  also,  in  "A  Study  of  Poetry"  (Houghton 
Mifflin), 

"If  the  revelation  of  personality  unites  men,  the  stress  upon 
mere  individuality  separates  them,  and  there  are  countless  poets 
of  the  day  who  glory  in  their  eccentric  individualism  without 
remembering  that  it  is  only  through  a  richly  developed  person- 
ality that  poetry  gains  any  universal  values." 

One  other  danger  threatens,  the  tendency  to  divorce  intellect 
from  emotion  in  the  poetry  of '  to-day.  Some  poets  make  us 
feel  that  they  are  very  keen  intellectually,  but  empty  of  all 


14  NEW  VOICES 

sympathy  with  the  common  and  universal  experiences  of  life. 
Others  are  volubly  emotional,  but  need  intellectual  discipline 
for  their  own  sakes  and  for  ours.  It  is  well  to  remember  that 
great  poetry  is  the  result  of  a  noble  synthesis  of  all  the  powers 
of  personality. 

More  than  anything  else  in  the  world  we  need  the  poetical 
speech  of  great  personalities  in  America  to-day.  We  have  good 
poets.  But  we  need  great  poets.  Where  is  the  poet  of  a 
stature  to  match  America?  Where  is  the  poet  who  rises  tall 
as  the  giant  sequoias,  who  goes  deep  through  rock  like  the 
Grand  Canyon,  whose  song  is  a  torrent  like  Niagara  ? 

Most  of  the  poetry  discussed  and  reprinted  here  has  been 
published  since  nineteen-hundred.  A  few  poems  printed  be- 
fore that  time  have  been  used  because  they  seem  to  me  to  be 
representative  in  an  especially  valuable  way  of  qualities  difficult 
to  describe.  I  have  focussed  my  attention  on  the  period  char- 
acterized by  the  revival  of  interest  in  poetry,  the  past  ten  years, 
and  have  said  little  of  the  work  of  men  like  Thomas  Hardy, 
A.  E.  Housman,  William  Butler  Yeats,  and  Rudyard  Kipling, 
who  were  established  in  the  regard  of  the  public  before  this 
period  began  and  who  deserve,  of  course,  the  most  careful  con- 
sideration in  a  place  apart.  Nor  have  I  attempted  to  represent 
adequately  all  of  the  poets  named  in  this  volume.  With  all 
due  respect  for  them  I  have  chosen,  nevertheless,  to  use  their 
work  illustratively  and  to  represent,  not  poets,  but  contemporary 
poetry.  I  regret  that  I  am  not  able  to  include  poems  by  Richard 
Le  Gallienne  and  Ezra  Pound  (Convention  and  Revolt !)  and 
by  all  other  poets  who  are  doing  good  work  in  our  period.  Many 
cannot  even  be  named.  I  have  tried  to  choose  those  that  typify 
the  several  tendencies  of  the  time  and  I  have  tried  to  choose  the 
typical  work  of  each  one  of  them  for  discussion.  For  the  rest, 
all  critics  disagree.  It  is  my  desire  to  treat  all  kinds  of  beauty 
with  respect  and  to  tell  the  truth  as  I  understand  it,  for  the  sake 
of  my  readers,  for  the  sake  of  poetry. 

Let  all  who  would  learn  to  understand  and  enjoy  contemporary 
poetry  say  something  like  this  to  themselves : 


CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  15 

"Life  has  its  limitations.  I  must  be  what  I  am,  one  person 
with  one  person's  experience.  But  through  poetry  I  can  have 
a  share  in  the  lives  and  adventures  of  others.  I  can  travel  on 
roads  that  my  feet  have  never  touched,  visit  in  houses  that  I 
have  never  entered,  share  hopes  and  dreams  and  conquests 
that  have  never  been  mine.  Poetry  can  be  for  me  the  fishing 
trip  that  I  was  never  able  to  take,  the  great  city  that  I  have  not 
seen,  the  personalities  that  I  have  not  fathomed,  the  banquets 
to  which  I  have  not  been  invited,  the  prizes  that  I  did  not  win, 
the  achievement  that  was  beyond  my  reach.  It  can  be  even 
the  love  that  I  have  not  known.  Through  poetry  I  shall  share 
the  life  of  my  own  times,  of  all  times;  I  shall  know  the  soul 
of  all  men  and  my  own  soul." 

If  he  approach  poetry  in  this  way,  simply,  naturally,  ex- 
pectantly, he  will  soon  wander  through  the  anthologies  into 
Wonderland. 

Of  course,  he  must  beware  of  the  mild  sheep  in  wolves'  cloth- 
ing who  bleat  at  the  moon  that  there  is  no  contemporary  poetry 
worth  reading,  who  cry  out  against  anything  new  in  life  or  art, 
whose  faith  is  in  the  static,  not  in  the  dynamic.  They  would 
let  To-day  slumber  beside  Yesterday  and  lead  To-morrow  to 
repose  beside  them  both.  Walter  de  la  Mare  has  described 
the  fate  of  such  reactionary  persons  in  the  following  quaint 
little  fable : 

JIM  JAY 

Do  diddle  di  do, 

Poor  Jim  Jay 
Got  stuck  fast 

In  Yesterday. 
Squinting  he  was 

On  cross-legs  bent, 
Never  heeding 

The  wind  was  spent. 
Round  veered  the  weathercock, 

The  sun  drew  in  — 


NEW  VOICES 

And  stuck  was  Jim 

Like  a  rusty  pin  .  .  . 
We  pulled  and  we  pulled 

From  seven  till  twelve, 
Jim,  too  frightened 

To  help  himself. 
But  all  in  vain. 

The  clock  struck  one, 
And  there  was  Jim 

A  little  bit  gone. 
At  half-past  five 

You  scarce  could  see 
A  glimpse  of  his  flapping 

Handkerchee.  % 
And  when  came  noon, 

And  we  climbed  sky-high, 
Jim  was  a  speck 

Slip-slipping  by. 
Come  to-morrow, 

The  neighbors  say, 
He'll  be  past  crying  for ; 

Poor  Jim  Jay. 


•  •    «•«•      *»,,  I,  **,',« 


PART  I 
THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM 

NOT  long  ago  a  geologist  made  a  collection  of  claystones  found 
near  a  great  river.  They  were  marvellously  designed  in  whorls 
and  loops  and  medallions  of  clay  that  had  once  been  plastic, 
not  to  the  hands  of  man,  but  to  the  living  fingers  of  water,  heat, 
cold,  pressure,  and  to  the  unnamed  forces  that  began  and  have 
carried  on  the  evolution  of  our  earth.  "They  were  lying  there," 
said  the  geologist,  "loose  in  a  clay  bank."  And  he  added,  "Is 
it  not  wonderful?" 

It  is  indeed  wonderful.  Why  should  a  handful  of  clay,  here 
and  there  in  the  great  bank,  gradually  take  to  itself  this  form 
of  beauty?  Why  should  the  great  bank  of  clay  show  no  such 
strongly  marked  and  easily  perceived  design?  "Why  does  Nature 
give  such  perfect  and  perceptible  designs  to  claystones,  quartz 
crystals  and  butterflies,  while  she  lets  the  small  hillocks  ramble 
at  will  across  the  surface  of  the  land?  Why  does  she  spread  the 
forests  about  in  uneven  patches  upon  the  hills,  cut  jagged  gashes 
chaotically  through  the  august  sides  of  mountains,  and  make 
no  regular  plan  for  the  windings  of  rivers?  In  small  things 
Nature  seems  to  perfect  her  designs  and  to  work  them  out  in 
strict  symmetry.  What  is  the  law  for  great  things? 

Great  things,  also,  have  a  pattern  or  design.  All  mountains 
are  clearly  manifest  to  us  as  mountains.  We  can  see  that  a 
river  is  a  river,  though  rivers  have  many  ways  of  winding.  It 
is  just  possible  that  great  things  have  a  symmetry  which  we, 
potent  to  the  extent  of  five  and  a  half  feet,  or  so,  of  flesh  and 
blood,  eyes  the  size  of  a  robin's  egg  and  brains  that  could  be 
carried  in  salt  sacks,  are  not  well  able  to  perceive.  Perhaps 
Nature's  larger  designs  are  too  large  to  seem  symmetrical  to 
us,  who  see  them  only  in  part.  The  far  away  worlds  in  space 
may  be  arranged  in  sequence,  in  a  gigantic  and  balanced  com- 

17 


i8  NEW  VOICES 

position  of  which  we  know  very,  very  little.  This  much  is 
certain — in  all  the  large  things  that  we  do  know  we  find  order 
and  design  as  an  expression  of  the  primal  genius,  even  though 
we  do  not  find  a  symmetry  as  strict  as  the  symmetry  of  design 
in  little  things.  And  in  every  design  variety  pulls  against  sym- 

(metry  as  love  pulls  against  law,  the  dynamic  against  the  static, 

I  life  against  death. 

-  Symmetry  and  variety,  then,  in  the  natural  world,  pull  against 
each  other  and  create  order,  design.  When  symmetry  is  sacri- 
ficed to  variety  there  is  bad  design — failure.  When  a  tree  grows 
with  all  of  its  branches  on  one  side,  that  tree  is  in  peril ;  a  great 
wind  after  a  heavy  rain  may  blow  it  down.  And  again,  when 
variety  is  sacrificed  to  symmetry  we  have  bad  design — failure. 
When  no  alien  pollen  is  brought  to  fertilize  the  flower,  the  seed 
of  a  plant  deteriorates.  Self-fertilization  causes  the  plant's 
strength  to  dwindle.  But,  always,  when  the  forces  that  make 
for  symmetry  are  pulling  hard  against  the  forces  that  make  for 
variety,  so  that  a  tension  is  created  and  an  equilibrium  main- 
tained between  them,  we  have  the  design  at  its  very  best  in  the 
world  where  Dame  Nature  is  artist. 

Now  all  of  our  human  arts,  to  a  certain  degree,  are  subject 
to  the  same  laws  that  govern  nature.  We  human  beings,  little 
artists,  possessed  of  some  small  share  of  the  primal  genius,  have 
risen  through  many  ranks  of  being  and  consciousness  into  that 
humanity  of  which  we  are  inordinately  proud.  And  when  we  are 
proud,  it  is  often  because  we  alone,  of  all  living  creatures,  can 

-•consciously  create  patterns  for  our  own  pleasure.  In  all  that 
we  make  for  use,  beauty  and  enduring  life,  we  use  patterns, 
good  and  bad.  And  in  all  patterns  we  find  that  the  law  of. 
symmetry  and  the  law  of  variety  must'  be  remembered.  The, 
penalty  of  forgetting  either  law  is  failure.  Let  us  see  howj 
this  applies  to  poetry,  and  especially  to  the  poetry  of  our  own 
period. 

"  First  of  all  we  must  realize  that  in  all  times  when  poems  have 
been  well  made  poets  have  made  patterns  for  them;  and  these 
patterns  have  been  of  many  kinds.  The  Psalms  in  our  Bibles, 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  19 

those  sublime  lyrics  of  worship,  were  made  in  accordance  with 
the  Hebrew  idea  of  design,  a  parallelism,  or  balancing  of  words 
and  phrases,  emotions  and  ideas,  one  against  another.  Take,  for 
example,  the  first  two  verses  of  Psalm  XXIX: 

Give  unto  the  Lord,  O  ye  mighty,  give  unto  the  Lord 

glory  and  strength. 
Give  unto  the  Lord  the  glory  due  unto  his  name; 

worship  the  Lord  in  the  beauty  of  Holiness. 

This  parallelism  was  the  Hebrew  way  of  providing  for  sym- 
metry in  the  design  of  a  poem.  Variety  was  subtly  secured  in 
symbol,  cadence  and  diction.  The  Japanese,  who  think  that 
we  have  too  many  words  in  our  poems,  have  exalted  symbolism 
and  made  it  the  basic  principle  in  the  designs  of  their  little  poems 
in  thirty-one  or  in  seventeen  syllables. 

But  a  very  large  part  of  the  world's  poetry  has  found  its  sym- 
metry of  design  in  rhythm,  and  in  most  English  poetry  (by 
which  I  mean  most  poetry  written  in  the  English  tongue)  poets 
have  added  rhyme  as  a  secondary  symmetry,  marking  and  de- 
fining rhythm.  The  variety  of  most  of  our  poetry  has  been  se- 
cured by  the  use  of  images  and  symbols,  appropriate  changes 
of  cadence,  extra  syllables  interpolated  in  a  line  that  would  other- 
wise be  typical,  to  swing  it  momentarily  from  a  too  rigid  sym- 
metry, that  the  reader  may  enjoy  the  return.  Variety  has  also 
been  secured  by  the  use  of  contrasted  phrases  or  meanings,  by 
vowel  echoes  and  in  countless  little  ways  that  the  cunning  of 
craftsmen  has  provided  for  the  pleasure  of  readers.  But  just 
because  the  poetry  of  our  tongue  has  usually  found  its  symmetry 
in  rhythm  and  its  variety  in  other  ways,  we  must  be  the  more 
careful  to  remember  that  not  all  poetry  has  been  made  in  this 
way  in  all  places  and  times.  And  he  would  be  rash  indeed  who 
would  maintain  that  the  best  poetry  must  always  be  of  one  kind, 
must  always  meet  the  requirements  of  one  race,  one  language 
and  one  artistic  credo.  When  our  poets,  after  studying  the 
craftsmanship  of  other  lands  and  tunes,  try  to  introduce 
into  our  literature  new  ways  of  designing,  it  should  be  our 


20  NEW  VOICES 

joy  to  read,   understand,   evaluate   and  encourage  their  at- 
tempts. 

One  more  fact  should  be  noted  before  we  discuss  in  detail 
the  kinds  of  patterns  that  are  being  made  by  poets  of  to-day. 
-That  is  the  matter  of  the  effect  of  the  length  of  the  poem  upon 
the  design.  Just  as  in  nature  the  pattern  seems  to  be  more 
clearly  denned  and  more  symmetrical  in  small  things  than  in 
large,  so,  in  the  poetry  that  has  lived,  short  poems  seem  to  be 
more  strictly  symmetrical  than  long  poems;  long  poems  seem  to 
be  mpre  varied  in  design  than  short  poems.  A  short  poem  is  like 
a  claystone  in  the  river  bank.  A  long  poem  is  like  the  river. 

We  can  make  only  one  generalization  with  reference  to  the 
.'designs  of  contemporary  poetry,  and  that  is  that  the  present 
tendency  is  toward  a  great  freedom  and  variety  in  composition.- 
•This  is  a  healthy  thing,  in  the  main,  and  a  sign  of  power.  In  the 
Elizabethan  period  the  same  thing  was  true.  The  sonnet  and 
other  foreign  forms  had  been  introduced  into  English  poetry 
and  all  good  poets  were  experimenting  with  them.  They  were 
inventing  forms  and  devices  of  their  own.  They  were  playing 
with  rhythms  and  rhymes  and  symbols  for  the  sheer  joy  of  it, 
in  the  true  craftsman's  way.  They  were  not  trying  to  achieve  a 
correct  formality.  They  were,  rather,  audacious  and  joyful  in 
their  search  for  ways  of  making  their  poems  vivid,  fresh,  color- 
ful, strong.  And  they  succeeded  so  well,  and  so  often,  that  if  we 
had  no  other  English  poetry  at  all  but  that  which  belongs  to  the 
Elizabethan  period,  our  heritage  would  be  rich  beyond  the  power 
of  words  to  tell.  Therefore,  when  we  say  that  the  poets  of  to- 
day are  seeking  variety  in  their  craft  as  the  Elizabethans  sought 
it,  we  say  that  they  have  a  spiritual  vitality  like  that  of  their 
great  predecessors. 

But  unlike  the  best  of  the  Elizabethan  poets,  many  of  those 
who  call  themselves  poets  in  our  day  seem  to  have  forgotten  the 
-  importance  of  structural  symmetry.    In  so  far  as  that  is  true 
their  achievement  is  poor.    Their  poetry,  unfortunately,  some- 
times teeters  and  topples  like  a  chair  that  has  lost  one  leg.    This 
A-  disregard  of  symmetry  in  design  is  probably  a  reaction  against 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  21 

the  stringent  symmetry,  the  tiresome  and  insistent  symmetry  of 
the  work  of  minor  poets  in  the  periods  immediately  preceding 
our  own.  Just  as  some  of  the  minor  Victorians  supposed  that 
they  might  neatly  enclose  the  thought  of  the  world  in  a  nice  little 
yard  surrounded  by  a  fence  of  dogma,  so  the  forms  into  which 
they  cast  their  poetry  often  seem  to  us,  of  a  later  generation,  to 
be  so  strictly  confined  that  they  lack  life  and  vigor.  They  are- 

-  smothered  in  form.    And  those  who  remember  with  pain  the 
wearisome  monotony  of  rhythm  in  certain  poems  duly  and  dully 
scanned,  dissected  and  detested  in  the  school  rooms  of  a  passing 
generation,  have  accepted  with  relief,  if  not  with  unqualified 
approval  and  gratitude,  a  certain  amount  of  wild  and  unsym- 
metrical  verse. 

Another  reason  for  our  renewed  love  of  variety  in  design  is  to 
be  found  in  our  renewed  belief  that  all  themes  are  themes  for 
poems,  when  genius  kindles  to  them.  'Tor  the  design  of  a  poem 
must  be  of  one  quality  with  the  theme  and  spirit  of  iti  Certain 
things  can  be  said  best  in  sonnets,  if  a  great  poet  feels  them  as  he 
feels  a  sonnet.  Certain  other  things  can  be  said  best  in  heroic 
rhythms,  like  the  sonorous  hexameter  of  the  Iliad.  Certain  other 
things  can  be  said  best  in  free,  rhapsodic  cadences.  A  large, 
rough  pattern  may  be  essential  to  sincerity  in  a  poem  which  uses 
a  large,  rough  emotion  or  idea.  It  is  for  the  poet  to  determine 
how  the  design  shall  conform  to  and  give  form  to  the  meaning 
and  emotion  which  he  would  convey.  And  it  is  only  natural 
that  a  period  in  which  poets  are  striving  eagerly  and  devoutly 
for  a  realization  of  many  new  phases  of  human  life  and  thought, 
a  period  in  which  even  one  man's  personal  experiences  may  be 
greater  and  broader  than  many  men's  personal  experiences  in 
mediaeval  times,  should  be,  also,  a  period  of  new  forms  in  verse, 
of  new  crystalizations  of  beauty  and  of  new  ways  of  refracting 
the  rays  of  life  through  the  medium  of  personality. 

-  The  poets  of  to-day  are  showing  their  love  of  variety  in  many  \  / 
ways.    Some  of  them  keep  the  traditional  patterns  that  have  been   '' 
used  for  many  generations  in  our  poetry,  but  use  these  patterns 
less  sedately,  with  a  freedom  that  satisfies  the  modern  love  of 


22  NEW  VOICES 

variety.  Others  refuse  to  use  the  typical  and  traditional  pat- 
terns and  make  somewhat  less  symmetrical  patterns  of  their 
own,  keeping  to  rhythm,  however,  as  the  basic  element  in  poetry, 
the  structural  symmetry  of  their  verse.  Still  others  seem  to  be 
trying  to  make  poems  in  a  way  quite  new  in  our  language,  using 
not  rhythm,  but  imagery,  symbolism  "or  parallelism  to  secure 
symmetry,  and  letting  their  rhythms  be  varied  almost  as  much 
as  rhythms  are  varied  in  prose.  These  last  often  seem  to  be 
carrying  the  quest  for  variety  a  little  too  far  afield.  Neverthe- 
less it  sometimes  happens  that  their  work  has  great  beauty  and 
value. 

Of  all  the  poets  who  use  the  old  fashioned  designs,  infusing  new 
life  into  them,  none  is  more  interesting  to  study  than  Arthur 
Davison  Ficke.  For  he  has  written  an  admirable  sonnet  se- 
quence, "The  Sonnets  of  a  Portrait  Painter,"  and  wiseacres  often 
tell  us  that  "a  sonnet  is  a  sonnet" — which  sounds  reasonable 
enough  to  be  the  truth — and  that  one  sonnet  differs  from  another 
only  in  glory,  or  in  type — classical  or  Shakespearian.  But  no  one 
with  ears  sensitive  to  delicate  variations  in  sound  can  read 
Mr.  Ficke's  sonnets  without  feeling  that  they  differ  subtly  from 
sonnets  of  the  elder  singers.  This  differentiation  is  due,  in  part, 
to  Mr.  Ficke's  own  individuality  and  the  flux  of  it  in  his  poems. 
But  it  is  also  due,  in  part,  to  his  modernity.  The  felicitous  use 
of  many  feminine  rhymes,  the  syllables  made  to  move  more 
rapidly  than  English  syllables  used  to  move  in  the  lines  of  son- 
nets, the  pauses  that  halt  the  lines  more  frequently — these  are 
shy  graces  more  easily  felt  than  enumerated.  The  student  who 
wishes  to  make  comparisons  should  compare  Mr.  Ficke's  son- 
nets with  the  sonnets  of  Longfellow,  carefully  noting  the  dif- 
ferences in  sound  which  separate  the  one  poet's  work  from  the 
work  of  the  other. 

Of  the  poets  who  make  rhythm  contribute  the  structural 
symmetry  of  most  of  their  work,  but  who  try  to  make  patterns 
of  a  new  kind,  Amy  Lowell  is  a  good  example.  A  study  of  her 
poem,  "Patterns,"  will  richly  reward  the  reader  who  is  interested 
in  this  question  of  design. 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  23 

"I  walk  down  the  garden  paths, 

And  all  the  daffodils 

Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills. 

I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff  brocaded  gown. 

With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 

I  too  am  a  rare 

Pattern.    As  I  wander  down 

The  garden  paths. 

"  My  dress  is  richly  figured, 
And  the  train 

Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 
On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 
Of  the  borders. 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 
Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 
Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me, 
Only  whalebone  and  brocade. 
And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 
Of  a  lime  tree.    For  my  passion 
Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 
The  daffodils  and  squills 
Flutter  in  the  breeze 
As  they  please. 
And  I  weep; 

For  the  lime  tree  is  in  blossom 
And  one  small  Sower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom." 

These  are  the  two  first  strophes  of  the  poem.    And  here  is  the 
last  strophe: 

"In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 

Up  and  down 

The  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and  to  snow. 

I  shall  go 

Up  and  down 

In  my  gown, 


24  NEW  VOICES 

Gorgeously  arrayed, 

Boned  and  stayed. 

And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from  embrace 

By  each  button,  hook  and  lace. 

For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead, 

Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders, 

In  a  pattern  called  war. 

Christ!  What  are  patterns  for?" 


This  poem  is  designed  inj^adencfiSj  and  in  spite  of  its  great 
variety,  the^symmetry  is  to  be  found,  first  of  all,  in  the  repeti-  ' 
tion,  at  more  or  less  regular  intervals,  of  the  typical  or  pattern 
cadence  of  the  poem,  —  "In  my  stiff  brocaded  gown."  (Jt  is' 
the  cadence  that  is  repeated  —  not  the  words).  The  cadence  is 
reiterated  in  lines  like  the  following: 

"Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain" 
"Only  whalebone  and  brocade" 
"Underneath  my  stiffened  gown" 
"But  she  guesses  he  is  near" 
"With  the  weight  of  this  brocade" 
"By  each  button,  hook  and  lace" 
"Aching,  melting,  unafraid  " 

In  other  lines  we  find  this  cadencejvaried  just  a  little  bit. 
Perhaps  an  accent  will  be  changed,  perhaps  a  word  with  two 
short-sounding  syllables  will  be  substituted  for  a  word  with  one 
long-sounding  syllable,  thus  giving  the  line  a  new  effect  with  the 
same  time  value  as  the  typical  cadence.  (For  there  is  certainly 
such  a  thing  as  quantity  in  English  poetry,  and  the  greatest 
poets  have  felt  it  and  used  their  knowledge  of  it,  although  they 
have  not  argued  about  it  overmuch.)  Such  slightly  varied  lines 
are  like  the  following: 

"Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion" 
"And  the  sliding  of  the  water" 
"Bewildered  by  my  laughter" 
"Underneath  the  fallen  blossoms" 
"Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders" 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  25 

Still  other  lines  are  simply  combinations  n£  the_  topical  ca- 
dence with  another  line_differing  from  it  slightly,  the  two  lines, 
taken  together  as  one  line,  making  a  line  with  double  the  time 
value  of  the  typical  cadence.  These  still  contribute  to  symmetry. 

"I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the  paths" 
"It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from  the  Duke" 
"The  blue  and  yellow  flowers  stood  up  proudly  in  the  sun" 
"Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses  and  to  asters  and  to  snow" 

And  still  other  lines,  like  the  frequently  repeated  "Up  and 
down,"  seem  to  be  part  of  the  symmetry  because  they  are  like 
a  part  of  the  typical  cadence,  suggesting  a  pause  and  the  rest  of 
it. 

But  just  as  most  of  the  lines  of  this  poem  seem  to  contribute 
to  symmetry  by  reiterating  the  same  or  similar  cadences,  so 
many  of  them  repeat  only  apart  of  the  typical  cadence,  and  then 
alter  it,  lengthen  it,  shorten  it,  or  emphasize  and  accent  it  in 
new  ways.  This,  evidently,  gratifies  Miss  Lowell's  love  of 
rhythmical  variety.  And  she  has  so  very  cunningly  devised 
this  poem  that  the  proportion  existing  between  typical  and 
atypical  lines  is  both  tantalizing  and  pleasurable.  The  varied 
cadences  never  delay  the  current  of  the  rhythm  too  long,  but 
rather,  relieve  and  rest  us,  so  that,  when  the  poem  swings  back 
into  the  familiar  cadence,  we  know  an  instantaneous  delight. 

•  We  should  notice,  also,  that  Miss  Lowell  has  not  been  con- 
tent with  rhythm  alone  as  the  structural  symmetry  of  her  design. 
She  has  reinforced  rhythm  in  several  ways.  The  whole  poem 
plays  with  the  idea  of  the  pattern.  Brocade,  a  silk  with  a  showy 
design,  is  mentioned  seven  times  in  the  poem.  The  word  "pat- 
tern," perhaps,  is  used  too  often.  The  word  "stiff"  is  also  re- 
iterated, probably  to  give  the  picture  of  the  lady  its  proper 
lineal  effect.  A  double  color  design  runs  through  the  poem 
from  end  to  end — the  pink  and  silver  of  the  woman  and  her 
gown,  the  blue  and  gold  of  daffodils  and  squills,  of  water  and 
sunlight. 

For  all  these  reasons,  this  poem,  a  narrative  of  the  eighteenth 


26  NEW  VOICES 

century  told  in  the  first  person,  is  an  unusual  opportunity  to 
take  pleasure  in  design.  Readers  may  ask  themselves  whether 
Miss  Lowell  could  wisely  have  introduced  as  many  lines,  pro- 
portionately, varying  from  the  typical,  in  a  poem  of  half  the 
length  of  this,  or  whether  in  a  poem  several  times  as  long  the 
reiteration  of  cadence  and  idea  which  gives  "Patterns"  its  very 
real  charm  would  have  become  tiresome. 

Other  fine  examples  of  design  which  keeps  to  rhythm  as  the 
structural  symmetry  of  poetry  are  Adelaide  Crapsey's  brilliant 
and  beautiful  little  poems  called  "Cinquains."  No  one  else 
has  ever  made  five-line  poems  like  them.  But  Miss  Crapsey 
made  quite  a  number  of  them  and  made  them  perfectly,  and  the 
fact  that  she  is  no  longer  living — an  exquisitely  original  spirit 
lost  to  us — is  a  cause  of  grief  to  poets  and  readers.  In  these 
little  poems  the  symbols,  always  true  and  adequate,  bear  the 
full  weight  of  the  meaning  and  the  rhythms  give  a  rare  sense  of 
growth  and  climax.  In  each  one  the  pattern  conforms  beauti- 
fully to  the  meaning  which  it  accompanies.  Here  is  one  of 
them,  "  The  Warning." 

"  Just  now, 
Out  of  the  strange 

Still  dusk  ...  as  strange,  as  still  .  .  . 
A  white  moth  flew.    Why  am  I  grown 
So  cold?  " 

As  has  already  been  said,  many  poets  of  to-day  have  at- 
tempted to  make  verse  with  a  symmetry  of  design  not  depen- 
dent upon  rhythm,  allowing  the  rhythm  to  be  the  variable  ele- 
ment in  the  composition.  But  only  a  few  of  these  poets  have  suc- 
ceeded in  giving  us  memorable  poems.  One,  which  is  seldom 
mentioned  since  it  is  by  a  poet  not  well  known  to  the1  general 
public,  is  "Psalm"  by  Jessie  E.  Sampter.  It  was  printed  in 
"The  Lyric  Year,"  an  anthology  made  as  the  result  of  a  prize 
competition  in  1912.  The  symmetry  of  design  in  this  poem 
depends  upon  the  principle  of  parallelism,  in  accordance  with 
which  the  Psalms  of  the  Bible  were  made.  It  is  one  of  very 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  27 

few  modern  "psalms"  that  are  psalms  in  any  real  and  formal 
sense.  The  symmetry  of  design  is  further  strengthened  by  the 
use  of  one  symbol,  the  symbol  of  light,  throughout  the  poem. 

"They  have  burned  to  Thee  many  tapers  in  many  temples: 
I  burn  to  Thee  the  taper  of  my  heart." 

Not  very  remote  from  this  psalm  in  spirit  and  in  structure 
are  a  number  of  poems  by  poets  of  the  far  East  who  are  now  writ- 
ing in  our  language.  Kahlil  Gibran  is  writing  poems  and  par- 
ables that  have  an  individual  music,  a  naive  charm  and  distinc- 
tion and  a  structural  symmetry  based  on  symbol,  contrast, 
repetition  and  parallelism.  The  poems  of  Sir  Rabindranath 
Tagore  need  no  introduction  to  American  readers.  They  are 
like  frail  crystal  cups  filled  with  the  clear  waters  of  meditation. 
Unfortunately  the  fact  that  many  of  them  are  so  strongly  sym- 
bolic as  to  seem  mystical  here  in  the  Occident  has  led  a  few 
readers  to  think  of  Sir  Rabindranath  as  a  "savior"  or  world 
hero  or  major  prophet.  It  is  probable  that  the  future  will  show 
all  what  the  present  seems  to  show  the  best  critics,  that  he  is  a 
Bengali  gentleman  and  a  poet  of  rare  achievement.  The  fol- 
lowing poem  taken  from  "Gitanjali"  is  one  of  many  that  find 
their  symmetry,  in  so  far  as  they  have  symmetrical  structure 
in  our  tongue,  in  symbol  and  story,  not  in  rhythm. 

"On  the  day  when  the  lotus  bloomed,  alas,  my  mind  was  straying, 
and  I  knew  it  not.  My  basket  was  empty  and  the  flower  remained 
unheeded. 

Only  now  and  again  a  sadness  fell  upon  me,  and  I  started  up  from 
my  dream  and  felt  a  sweet  trace  of  a  strange  fragrance  hi  the  south 
wind. 

That  vague  fragrance  made  my  heart  ache  with  longing,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  it  was  the  eager  breath  of  the  summer  seeking  for 
its  completion. 

I  knew  not  then  that  it  was  so  near,  that  it  was  mine,  and  this 
perfect  sweetness  had  blossomed  in  the  depth  of  my  own  heart." 

The  rhythms  of  these  verses  are  similar,  but  the  stresses 
hardly  recur  regularly  enough  to  create  a  symmetry  in  rhythm. 


28  NEW  VOICES 

The  same  thing  may  be  said  of  John  Gould  Fletcher's  poem 
on  Lincoln.  The  first  division  of  it  is  a  complete  poem  in  itself. 
It  tells  the  story  of  Lincoln's  life  in  terms  of  the  life  of  the  pine 
tree.  And  although  the  rhythms  are  similar,  the  several  lines 
of  the  three  strophes  are  unified  and  held  together  rather  more 
by  symbol  than  by  the  regular  recurrence  of  stress  in  the  flowing 
of  the  rhythm. 

"Like  a  gaunt,  scraggly  pine 

Which  lifts  its  head  above  the  mournful  sandhills; 
And  patiently,  through  dull  years  of  bitter  silence, 
Untended  and  uncared  for,  starts  to  grow. 

"Ungainly,  laboring,  huge, 

The  wind  of  the  north  has  twisted  and  gnarled  its  branches; 

Yet  in  the  heat  of  midsummer  days,  when  thunder-clouds  ring  the 

horizon, 
A  nation  of  men  shall  rest  beneath  its  shade. 

"And  it  shall  protect  them  all, 
Hold  everyone  safe  there,  watching  aloof  in  silence; 
Until  at  last  one  mad  stray  bolt  from  the  zenith 
Shall  strike  it  in  an  instant  down  to  earth." 

In  this  connection  it  is  interesting  to  call  to  mind  the  fact  that 
Walt  Whitman's  great  threnody,  "  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- 
yard  Bloomed,"  would  have  had  almost  no  symmetry  of  design 
if  he  had  not  tied  the  threads  of  meaning  together  by  his  fre- 
quently reiterated  mention  of  lilac,  star,  and  hermit  thrush.  And 
it  is  interesting  to  note,  further,  that  lovers  of  Walt  Whitman 
value  his  long  poems  most,  and  value  them  for  the  breadth  of 
vision  that  is  in  them  and  for  the  towering  spirit  of  democracy, 
rather  than  for  the  beauty  of  his  craftsmanship,  although  even 
judged  as  a  craftsman,  Whitman  had  certain  shining  powers. 
But  the  only  short  poem  of  his  which  is  well  known  is  "  O  Cap- 
tain, My  Captain!"  which  has  a  symmetry  of  design  based  on 
rhythm  and  rhyme. 

And  now  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  the  question  of  the 
real  importance  of  rhyme  in  the  designing  of  poems.  What  does 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  29 

rhyme  add  to  poetry  and  how  should  it  be  used?  The  contem- 
porary poets  have  answered  that  question  in  several  ways.  The 
extreme  conservatives  hold  that  rhyme  should  be  used  in  all 
English  poems  not  written  in  blank  verse.*  The  extremists  of 
the  radical  schools  claim  that  rhyme  is  an  old  and  worn-out  de- 
vice and  that,  because  the  number  of  possible  rhymes  is  strictly 
limited,  and  because  we  have  heard  most  of  them  many  times, 
contemporary  poetry  is  best  written  without  rhymes.  But  the 
moderates,  the  greatest  living  poets,  those  recognized  both  by 
critics  and  by  the  public,  use  rhyme  in  a  large  part  of  their  work, 
and  this  fact  leads  us  naturally  enough  to  believe  that  they  con- 
sider it  beautiful  and  valuable.  The  fact  that  they  write  some 
unrhymed  poems  leads  us  to  believe  that  they  think  it  not  in- 
dispensable. Tennyson — a  rather  conservative  poet — wrote  one 
of  his  finest  lyrics  without  rhyme,  the  famous  "Tears,  Idle 
Tears;"  and  many  lyrics  by  contemporary  poets  are  fluent 
enough  and  maintain  their  symmetry  well  enough  to  be  memor- 
able without  it.  One  of  these  is  "Deirdre,"  by  James  Stephens, 
which  begins  in  this  fashion : 

"Do  not  let  any  woman  read  this  verse; 
It  is  for  men,  and  after  them  their  sons 
And  their  sons'  sons. 

"The  time  comes  when  our  hearts  sink  utterly; 
When  we  remember  Deirdre  and  her  tale, 
And  that  her  lips  are  dust." 

Such  poems  show  what  maybe  done  without  rhyme  and  many 
others  show  how  beautiful  rhyming  may  be.  Only  the  extrem- 
ists of  conservative  or  radical  theory  have  lost  this  traditional 
sanity  with  regard  to  the  use  of  rhyme,  the  conservatives  saying, 
in  effect,  "  We  have  grown  accustomed  to  it ;  therefore  we  must 
have  it;"  the  radicals  saying,  in  effect,  "We  have  grown  ac- 
customed to  it ;  therefore  we  had  better  do  without  it !" 

What  purpose  does  rhyme  serve  in  a  poem  ?  That  is  the  ques- 
tion which  students  of  poetry  must  answer.  First  of  all,  we 

*  The  writer  refers  here  to  unrhymed  iambic  pentameter,  not  simply  to  any  unrhymed  verse. 


30  NEW  VOICES 

may  say,  it  serves  to  define  the  rhythm  by  grouping  together 
certain  cadences  and  marking  the  pause  that  comes  after  them. 
Rhyme,  most  commonly,  is  used  in  this  way,  and  this  way  of 
using  it  is  generally  understood.  Such  rhyming  serves  the  same 
purpose  in  poetry  that  a  picture  frame  serves  with  a  picture. 
It  contributes  to  the  symmetry  of  the  poetic  pattern  by  marking 
the  place  where  the  rhythm  stops. 

Contemporary  poets  use  rhymes  of  this  sort  very  much  as 
poets  always  have  used  them,  but  with  a  new  scrupulousness 
with  regard  to  sound  values.  They  realize  that  the  constant 
use  of  rhyme  in  English  poetry  has  increased  our  sensitivity. 
Many  rhymes  which  pleased  earlier  generations — such  rhymes 
as  "life,"  "strife,"  "love,"  "dove,"  and  the  like,  have  been  used 
so  frequently  that  they  have  become  trite  and  tiresome.  Many 
of  the  "rich  rhymes,"  moreover,  rhymes  like  "again,"  "pain," 
"home,"  "come,"  "  gone,"  "  won,"  are  less  pleasing  to  modern 
poets  and  to  their  readers  than  they  were  to  our  forefathers. 
Good  contemporary  poets  avoid  rich  rhymes,  really  imperfect 
rhymes,  whenever  emphasis  and  position  would  make  the  imper- 
fection conspicuous  and  distract  the  reader  with  a  desire  to  mis- 
pronounce. A  noticeable  flaw  in  the  rhyming  of  a  short  lyric  is 
especially  ugly  just  because  it  is  conspicuous.  Walter  de  la  Mare, 
however,  is  one  of  a  few  masters  of  euphony  who  can  use  the  rich 
rhymes  effectively.  He  does  not  make  them  so  conspicuous 
that  they  distract  the  reader  with  a  desire  to  mispronounce. 
In  his  work  they  are  mere  sound  echoes,  and  not  at  all  ugly. 

A  poem  which  is  an  excellent  example  of  good  rhyming  in  a 
short  lyric  is  Margaret  Widdemer's  "Greek  Folk  Song"  from 
which  the  following  lines  are  taken: 

"Under  dusky  laurel  leaf, 

Scarlet  leaf  of  rose, 
I  lie  prone,  who  have  known 

All  a  woman  knows." 

In  the  third  line  of  this  stanza  the  reader  will  notice  that  a 
word  at  the  end  of  the  line  rhymes  with  a  word  within  the  line — 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  3f 

"prone,"  "known."  Clever  poets  can  do  much  to  create  a 
structural  symmetry  by  the  clever  use  of  this  internal  rhyming. 
Moreover  it  makes  a  poem  easier  to  remember.  And  if  such 
rhymes  are  well  chosen,  they  bring  into  a  poem  a  music  that  is 
like  the  reiterated  sound  of  a  bell.  Of  course,  the  use  of  such 
rhymes  is  beset  with  perils,  the  chief  of  these  being  the  peril  of 
apparent  artificiality.  But,  to  the  expert  craftsman,  internal 
rhyming  affords  an  opportunity  for  the  perfecting  of  fine  pat- 
terns. 

One  of  the  cleverest  American  poems  in  which  internal  rhym- 
ing is  used  is  "The  Song"  from  "  Juanita"  by  Lauren  E.  Crane, 
one  of  the  pioneer  poets  of  California.  Only  two  or  three  lines 
of  it  seem  in  any  way  artificial,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  long 
lines  in  each  stanza  are  rhymed  three  or  four  times  each.  "  The 
Song  "  maintains,  in  most  of  its  lines,  a  feeling  of  spontaneous 
sincerity  which  always  belongs  to  good  lyrics.  Here  is  one  stanza 
—the  first: 

"To-night  the  stars  are  flowing  gold; 
The  light  South  wind  is  blowing  cold, 

Esta  es,  mi  lucha? 
The  bright,  bent  moon  is  growing  old, 

Escuchat" 

This  poem,  however,  was  written  about  fifty  years  ago.  It  is 
interesting  to  compare  it  with  recent  poetry  in  which  internal 
rhyming  is  used.  For  the  sake  of  contrast  let  us  read  a  few  lines 
from  Amy  Lowell's  "The  Cross-Roads,"  a  poem  written  in 
what  Miss  Lowell  calls  "  polyphonicjgrg>se,"  The  rhyming  in 
this  passage  is  much  needed  as  a  contribution  to  the  symmetry 
of  the  design. 

"The  stake  has  wrenched,  the  stake  has  started,  the  body, 
flesh  from  flesh  has  parted.  But  the  bones  hold  tight,  socket  and 
ball,  and  clamping  them  down  in  the  hard,  black  ground  is  the 
stake,  wedged  through  ribs  and  spine.  The  bones  may  twist, 
and  heave,  and  twine,  but  the  stake  holds  them  still  in  line. 
The  breeze  goes  down,  and  the  round  stars  shine,  for  the  stake 
holds  the  fleshless  bones  in  line." 


32  NEW  VOICES 

Perhaps  the  rhyming  also  hurries  these  grewsome  lines  a  little 
and  contributes  something  to  our  sense  of  excitement. 

Rhyme,  after  all,  like  rhythm  and  imagery  and  symbolism, 
is  something  which  contributes  to  the  strength  and  beauty  of  a 
poem —  if  it  be  used  by  a  genius.  That  is  the  most  and  the  least 
that  can  be  said  about  it.  Rhyme  is  almost  always  a  contribu- 
tion to  symmetry  of  design  and  therefore  it  is  usually  more  im- 
portant and  valuable  in  short  poems  than  in  long  poems.  It 
belongs  to  the  free  and  nonchalant  ballad  and  to  brief  lyrics. 
It  is  not  an  essential  in  the  making  of  dramatic  poems  and  long 
narratives.  Like  rhythm  and  imagery,  rhyme  can  be  used  in- 
sincerely and  inappropriately.  Whenever  this  is  done,  the  lines 
will  all  jingle  in  vain.  Posterity  will  never  hear  them.  But 
posterity  will  return,  again  and  again,  to  a  psalm,  or  a  poem  in 
blank  verse,  nobly  conceived  and  sincerely  written.  However, 
when  rhyme  is  well  used,  it  is  beautiful  and  has  genuine  mne- 
monic value.  It  may  enable  men  to  remember  what  might 
otherwise  be  forgotten. 

After  all,  what  makes  a  poem  live?  The  answer  is  both  simple 
and  complex.  One  may  say,  quickly  and  thoughtlessly,  "The 
beauty  and  truth  that  are  in  it."  And  this  will  be  a  true  answer. 
But  this  answer  becomes  less  simply  sufficient  when  we  go  on  to 
explain  that  beauty  and  truth  in  a  poem  are  the  result  of  beauty 
and  truth  in  a  human  spirit,  combined  with  and  expressed  by 
such  excellent  craftsmanship  as  can  present  the  beauty  and  truth 
to  other  human  beings  impressively  and  memorably.  Then, 
when  we  have  used  that  word,  "memorably/'  we  have  explained 
the  vital  importance  of  design. 

We  all  know  how  much  easier_itjs  lo  remember  a  poem  that 
has  a  decided  pattern  in  rhyme,  rhythm,  thought,  imagery  or 
symbol,  than  it  is  to  remember  a  poem  which  flows  on  inco- 
herently from  one  thought  or  emotion  to  the  next.  In  spite 
of  all  that  dilettantes  of  the  "saffron  schools"  may  tell  us, 
poems  that  live,  live  because  they  are  so  well  designed  that  they 
can  hardly  be  forgotten.  A  well  known  American  poet  says  that 
he  can  test  the  value  of  his  own  work  by  its  mnemonic  quality. 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  33 

When  he  can  remember  a  poem  that  he  has  written  he  usually 
finds  that  the  poem  is  remembered  and  enjoyed  by  many  other 
people.  His  weaker  poems  fade  rapidly  out  of  his  own  mind. 

Beautiful  sentiments  and  ideas  taken  alone,  or  grouped  to- 
gether without  clearly  defined  order,  may  win  a  hearing  for  a 
poem  and  give  it  a  temporary  value  in  the  generation  to  which 
it  belongs.  But  a  poem  will  live  only  because  its  parts  are  Jield 
together,  and  unified_jn  a  symmejriad_pattern  and  because 
variety  is  a  dynamic  force  movinglrTit  from  line  to  line.  When- 
ever this  is  true,  little  poems  are  as  perfect  as  claystones  found 
in  a  river  bank  and  long  poems  have  the  sinuous  beauty  of 
streams. 

PATTERNS 

I  walk  down  the  garden  paths, 

And  all  the  daffodils 

Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills. 

I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 

I  too  am  a  rare 

Pattern.    As  I  wander  down 

The  garden  paths. 

My  dress  is  richly  figured, 

And  the  train 

Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 

On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 

Of  the  borders. 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 

Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 

Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me, 

Only  whalebone  and  brocade. 

And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 

Of  a  lime  tree.    For  my  passion 

Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 

The  daffodils  and  squills 

Flutter  in  the  breeze 

As  they  please. 


34  NEW  VOICES 

And  I  weep; 

For  the  lime  tree  is  in  blossom 

And  one  small  flower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom. 

And  the  plashing  of  waterdrops 

In  the  marble  fountain 

Comes  down  the  garden  paths. 

The  dripping  never  stops. 

Underneath  my  stiffened  gown 

Is  the  softness  of  a  woman  bathing  in  a  marble  basin, 

A  basin  in  the  midst  of  hedges  grown 

So  thick,  she  cannot  see  her  lover  hiding, 

But  she  guesses  he  is  near, 

And  the  sliding  of  the  water 

Seems  the  stroking  of  a  dear 

Hand  upon  her. 

What  is  Summer  in  a  fine  brocaded  gown! 

I  should  like  to  see  it  lying  in  a  heap  upon  the  ground. 

All  the  pink  and  silver  crumpled  up  on  the  ground. 

I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the  paths, 

And  he  would  stumble  after, 

Bewildered  by  my  laughter. 

I  should  see  the  sun  flashing  from  his  sword  hilt  and  the  buckles  on 

his  shoes. 
I  would  choose 

To  lead  him  in  a  maze  along  the  patterned  paths, 
A  bright  and  laughing  maze-  for  my  heavy-booted  lover, 
Till  he  caught  me  in  the  shade, 

And  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  bruised  my  body  as  he  clasped  me, 
Aching,  melting,  unafraid. 

With  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  sundrops, 
And  the  plopping  of  the  waterdrops,  , 

All  about  us  in  the  open  afternoon — 
I  am  very  like  to  swoon 
With  the  weight  of  this  brocade, 
For  the  sun  sifts  through  the  shade. 

Underneath  the  fallen  blossom 

In  my  bosom, 

Is  a  letter  I  have  hid. 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  35 

It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from  the  Duke. 

"Madam,  we  regret  to  inform  you  that  Lord  Hart  well 

Died  in  action  Thursday  se'nnigbt." 

As  I  read  it  in  the  white,  morning  sunlight, 

The  letters  squirmed  like  snakes. 

"Any  answer,  Madam?"  said  my  footman. 

"No,"  I  told  him. 

"  See  that  the  messenger  takes  some  refreshment. 

No,  no  answer." 

And  I  walked  into  the  garden, 

Up  and  down  the  patterned  paths, 

In  my  stiff,  correct  brocade. 

The  blue  and  yellow  flowers  stood  up  proudly  in  the  sun, 

Each  one. 

I  stood  upright  too, 

Held  rigid  to  the  pattern 

By  the  stiffness  of  my  gown. 

Up  and  down  I  walked, 

Up  and  down. 

In  a  month  he  would  have  been  my  husband. 

In  a  month,  here,  underneath  this  lime, 

We  would  have  broke  the  pattern; 

He  for  me,  and  I  for  him, 

He  as  Colonel,  I  as  Lady, 

On  this  shady  seat. 

He  had  a  whim 

That  sunlight  carried  blessing. 

And  I  answered,  "It  shall  be  as  you  have  said."/  f^ 

Now  he  is  dead. 

In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 

Up  and  down 

The  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and  to  snow. 

I  shall  go 

Up  and  down, 

In  my  gown. 

Gorgeously  arrayed, 


36  NEW  VOICES 

Boned  and  stayed. 

And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from  embrace 

By  each  button,  hook,  and  lace. 

For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead, 

Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders, 

In  a  pattern  called  a  war. 

Christ!  What  are  patterns  for? 

A  my  Lowell 

RENASCENCE* 

All  I  could  see  from  where  I  stood 
Was  three  long  mountains  and  a  wood; 
I  turned  and  looked  another  way, 
And  saw  three  islands  in  a  bay. 
So  with  my  eyes  I  traced  the  line 
Of  the  horizon,  thin  and  fine, 
Straight  around  till  I  was  come 
Back  to  where  I'd  started  from; 
And  all  I  saw  from  where  I  stood 
Was  three  long  mountains  and  a  wood. 
Over  these  things  I  could  not  see; 
These  were  the  things  that  bounded  me; 
And  I  could  touch  them  with  my  hand, 
Almost,  I  thought,  from  where  I  stand. 
And  all  at  once  things  seemed  so  small 
My  breath  came  short,  and  scarce  at  all. 
But,  sure,  the  sky  is  big,  I  said; 
Miles  and  miles  above  my  head; 
So  here  upon  my  back  I'll  lie 
And  look  my  fill  into  the  sky. 
And  so  I  looked,  and,  after  all, 
The  sky  was  not  so  very  tall. 
The  sky,  I  said,  must  somewhere  stop, 
And — sure  enpugh! — I  see  the  top! 
The  sky,  I  thought,  is  not  so  grand; 
I  'most  could  touch  it  with  my  hand! 
And,  reaching  up  my  hand  to  try, 
I  screamed  to  feel  it  touch  the  sky. 

*This  poem  is  reprinted  by  special  permission  of  Mitchell  Kennerley,  publisher  of  the 
volume  Renascence  and  Other  Poems  from  which  it  is  taken. 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM*1  37 


I  screamed,  and — lo! — Infii 

Came  down  and  settled  over  me; 

Forced  back  my  scream  into  my  chest, 

Bent  back  my  arm  upon  my  breast, 

And,  pressing  of  the  Undefined 

The  definition  on  my  mind, 

Held  up  before  my  eyes  a  glass 

Through  which  my  shrinking  sight  did  pass 

Until  it  seemed  I  must  behold 

Immensity  made  manifold ; 

Whispered  to  me  a  word  whose  sound 

Deafened  the  air  for  worlds  around, 

And  brought  unmuffled  to  my  ears 

The  gossiping  of  friendly  spheres, 

The  creaking  of  the  tented  sky, 

The  ticking  of  Eternity. 

I  saw  and  heard,  and  knew  at  last 

The  How  and  Why  of  all  things,  past, 

The  present,  and  forevermore. 

The  Universe,  cleft  to  the  core, 

Lay  open  to  my  throbbing  sense 

That,  sick'ning,  I  would  fain  pluck  thence 

But  could  not, — nay!  But  needs  must  suck 

At  the  great  wound,  and  could  not  pluck 

My  lips  away  till  I  had  drawn 

All  venom  out. — Ah,  fearful  pawn! 

For  my  omniscience  paid  I  toll 

In  infinite  remorse  of  soul. 

All  sin  was  of  my  sinning,  all 

Atoning  mine,  and  mine  the  gall 

Of  ah1  regret.    Mine  was  the  weight 

Of  every  brooded  wrong,  the  hate 

That  stood  behind  each  envious  thrust, 

Mine  every  greed,  mine  every  lust. 

And  all  the  while  for  every  grief, 

Each  suffering,  I  craved  relief 

With  individual  desire, — 

Craved  all  in  vain!  And  felt  fierce  fire 

About  a  thousand  people  crawl; 

Perished  with  each, — then  mourned  for  all! 


38  NEW  VOICES 

A  man  wal  starving  in  Capri; 

He  moved  his  eyes  and  looked  at  me; 

I  felt  his  gaze,  I  heard  his  moan, 

And  knew  his  hunger  as  my  own. 

I  saw  at  sea  a  great  fog-bank 

Between  two  ships  that  struck  and  sank; 

A  thousand  screams  the  heavens  smote; 

And  every  scream  tore  through  my  throat. 

No  hurt  I  did  not  feel,  no  death 

That  was  not  mine;  mine  each  last  breath 

That,  crying,  met  an  answering  cry 

From  the  compassion  that  was  I. 

All  suffering  mine,  and  mine  it's  rod; 

Mine,  pity  like  the  pity  of  God. 

Ah,  awful  weight!  Infinity 

Pressed  down  upon  the  finite  me ! 

My  anguished  spirit,  like  a  bird, 

Beating  against  my  lips  I  heard; 

Yet  lay  the  weight  so  close  about 

There  was  no  room  for  it  without. 

And  so  beneath  the  weight  lay  I 

And  suffered  death,  but  could  not  die. 

Long  had  I  lain  thus,  craving  death, 
When  quietly  the  earth  beneath 
Gave  way,  and  inch  by  inch,  so  great 
At  last  had  grown  the  crushing  weight, 
Into  the  earth  I  sank  till  I 
Full  six  feet  under  ground  did  lie, 
And  sank  no  more, — there  is  no  weight 
Can  follow  here,  however  great. 
From  off  my  breast  I  felt  it  roll, 
And  as  it  went  my  tortured  soul 
Burst  forth  and  fled  in  such  a  gust 
That  all  about  me  swirled  the  dust. 

Deep  in  the  earth  I  rested  now; 
Cool  is  its  hand  upon  the  brow 
And  soft  its  breast  beneath  the  head 
Of  one  who  is  so  gladly  dead. 
And  all  at  once,  and  over  all 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  39 

The  pitying  rain  began  to  fall; 

I  lay  and  heard  each  pattering  hoof 

Upon  my  lowly,  thatched  roof, 

And  seemed  to  love  the  sound  far  more 

Than  ever  I  had  done  before. 

For  rain  it  hath  a  friendly  sound 

To  one  who's  six  feet  under  ground; 

And  scarce  the  friendly  voice  or  face: 

A  grave  is  such  a  quiet  place. 

The  rain,  I  said,  is  kind  to  come 
And  speak  to  me  in  my  new  home. 
I  would  I  were  alive  again 
To  kiss  the  fingers  of  the  rain, 
To  drink  into  my  eyes  the  shine 
Of  every  slanting  silver  line, 
To  catch  the  freshened,  fragrant  breeze 
From  drenched  and  dripping  apple  trees. 
For  soon  the  shower  will  be  done, 
And  then  the  broad  face  of  the  sun 
Will  laugh  above  the  rain-soaked  earth 
Until  the  world  with  answering  mirth 
Shakes  joyously,  and  each  round  drop 
Rolls,  twinkling,  from  its  grass-blade  top. 
How  can  I  bear  it;  buried  here, 
While  overhead  the  sky  grows  clear 
And  blue  again  after  the  storm? 
O,  multi-colored,  multi-form, 
Beloved  beauty  over  me, 
That  I  shall  never,  never  see 
Again!  Spring-silver,  autumn-gold, 
That  I  shall  nevermore  behold! 
Sleeping  your  myriad  magics  through, 
Close-sepulchred  away  from  you! 
O  God,  I  cried,  give  me  new  birth, 
And  put  me  back  upon  the  earth! 
Upset  each  cloud's  gigantic  gourd 
And  let  the  heavy  rain,  down-poured 
In  one  big  torrent,  set  me  free, 
Washing  my  grave  away  from  me! 


40  NEW  VOICES 

I  ceased;  and,  through  the  breathless  hush 

That  answered  me,  the  far-off  rush 

Of  herald  wings  came  whispering 

Like  music  down  the  vibrant  string 

Of  my  ascending  prayer,  and —  crash! 

Before  the  wild  wind's  whistling  lash 

The  startled  storm-clouds  reared  on  high 

And  plunged  in  terror  down  the  sky, 

And  the  big  rain  in  one  black  wave 

Fell  from  the  sky  and  struck  my  grave. 

I  know  not  how  such  things  can  be 

I  only  know  there  came  to  me 

A  fragrance  such  as  never  clings 

To  aught  save  happy,  living  things; 

A  sound  as  of  some  joyous  elf 

Singing  sweet  songs  to  please  himself, 

And,  through  and  over  everything, 

A  sense  of  glad  awakening. 

The  grass,  a-tiptoe  at  my  ear, 

Whispering  to  me  I  could  hear; 

I  felt  the  rain's  cool  finger-tips 

Brushed  tenderly  across  my  lips, 

Laid  gently  on  my  sealed  sight, 

And  all  at  once  the  heavy  night 

Fell  from  my  eyes  and  I  could  see, — 

A  drenched  and  dripping  apple-tree, 

A  last  long  line  of  silver  rain, 

A  sky  grown  clear  and  blue  again. 

And  as  I  looked  a  quickening  gust 

Of  wind  blew  up  to  me  and  thrust 

Into  my  face  a  miracle 

Of  orchard-breath,  and  with  the  smell, — 

I  know  not  how  such  things  can  be! — 

I  breathed  my  soul  back  into  me. 

Ah!  up  then  from  the  ground  sprang  I 

And  hailed  the  earth  with  such  a  cry 

As  is  not  heard  save  from  a  man 

Who  has  been  dead,  and  lives  again. 

About  the  trees  my  arms  I  wound; 

Like  one  gone  mad  I  hugged  the  ground; 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  41 

I  raised  my  quivering  arms  on  high; 
I  laughed  and  laughed  into  the  sky, 
Till  at  my  throat  a  strangling  sob 
Caught  fiercely,  and  a  great  heart-throb 
Sent  instant  tears  into  my  eyes; 

0  God,  I  cried,  no  dark  disguise 
Can  e'er  hereafter  hide  from  me 
Thy  radiant  identity! 

Thou  canst  not  nafcve  across  the  grass 
But  my  quickies  will  see  Thee  pass, 
Nor  speak,  however  silently, 
But  my  lujfshed  voice  will  answer  Thee. 

1  knowjme  path  that  tells  Thy  way 
Through  the  cool  eve  of  every  day; 
God,  I  can  push  the  grass  apart 
And  lay  my  finger  on  Thy  heart! 

The  world  stands  out  on  either  side 
No  wider  than  the  heart  is  wide; 
Above  the  world  is  stretched  the  sky, — 
No  higher  than  the  soul  is  high. 
The  heart  can  push  the  sea  and  land 
Farther  away  on  either  hand; 
The  soul  can  split  the  sky  in  two, 
And  let  the  face  of  God  shine  through. 
But  East  and  West  will  pinch  the  heart 
That  can  not  keep  them  pushed  apart; 
And  he  whose  soul  is  flat — the  sky 
Will  cave  in  on  him  by  and  by. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  MUlay 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

(After  completing  a  book  for  one  now  dead.) 

(0  Earth-and-Aulumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 
She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!) 
In  the  brown  grasses  slanting  with  the  wind, 
Lone  as  a  lad  whose  dog's  no  longer  near, 
Lone  as  a  mother  whose  only  child  has  sinned, 


42  NEW  VOICES 

Lone  on  the  loved  hill  ....  and  below  me  here 
The  thistle-down  in  tremulous  atmosphere 
Along  red  clusters  of  the  sumach  streams; 
The  shrivelled  stalks  of  goldenrod  are  sere, 
And  crisp  and  white  their  flashing  old  racemes. 
(.  .  .  forever  .  .  .  forever  .  .  .  forever  .  .  .) 
This  is  the  lonely  season  of  the  year, 
This  is  the  season  of  our  lonely  dreams. 

(0  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 
She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!) 
The  corn-shocks  westward  on  the  stubble  plain 
Show  like  an  Indian  village  of  dead  days; 
The  long  smoke  trails  behind  the  crawling  train, 
And  floats  atop  the  distant  woods  ablaze 
With  orange,  crimson,  purple.    The  low  haze 
Dims  the  scarped  bluffs  above  the  inland  sea, 
Whose  wide  and  slaty  waters  in  cold  glaze 
Await  yon  full-moon  of  the  night-to-be, 
(.  .  .  far  .  .  .  and  far  ...  and  far  .  .  .) 
These  are  the  solemn  horizons  of  man's  ways, 
These  are  the  horizons  of  solemn  thought  to  me. 

(0  Earth-and-Autumn  of  the  Setting  Sun, 
She  is  not  by,  to  know  my  task  is  done!) 
And  this  the  hill  she  visited,  as  friend; 
And  this  the  hill  she  lingered  on,  as  bride — 
Down  in  the  yellow  valley  is  the  end: 
They  laid  her  ...  in  no  evening  autumn  tide  .  .  0 
Under  fresh  flowers  of  that  May  morn,  beside 
The  queens  and  cave-women  of  ancient  earth  .  .  . 

This  is  the  hill  .  .  .  and  over  my  city's  towers, 

Across  the  world  from  sunset,  yonder  in  air, 

Shines,  through  its  scaffoldings,  a  civic  dome 

Of  piled  masonry,  which  shall  be  ours 

To  give,  completed,  to  our  children  there  .  .  . 

And  yonder  far  roof  of  my  abandoned  home 

Shall  house  new  laughter  .  .  .  Yet  I  tried  ...  I  tried 

And,  ever  wistful  of  the  doom  to  come, 

I  built  her  many  a  fire  for  love  ...  for  mirth  .  .  . 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  43 

(When  snows  were  falling  on  our  oaks  outside, 
Dear,  many  a  winter  fire  upon  the  hearth)  .  .  . 
(.  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .  farewell  .  .  .) 
We  dare  not  think  too  long  on  those  who  died, 
While  still  so  many  yet  must  come  to  birth. 

William  Ellery  Leonard 

THE  DYING  PATRIOT 

Day  breaks  on  England  down  the  Kentish  hills, 
Singing  in  the  silence  of  the  meadow-footing  rills, 
Day  of  my  dreams,  O  day! 

I  saw  them  march  from  Dover,  long  ago, 

With  a  silver  cross  before  them,  singing  low, 
Monks  of  Rome  from  their  home  where  the  blue  seas  break  in  foam, 

Augustine  with  his  feet  of  snow. 

Noon  strikes  on  England,  noon  on  Oxford  town, 

— Beauty  she  was  statue  cold — there's  blood  upon  her  gown: 

Noon  of  my  dreams,  O  noon! 

Proud  and  godly  kings  had  built  her,  long  ago, 

With  her  towers  and  tombs  and  statues  all  arow, 
With  her  fair  and  floral  air  and  the  love  that  lingers  there, 

And  the  streets  where  the  great  men  go. 

Evening  on  the  olden,  the  golden  sea  of  Wales, 
When  the  first  star  shivers  and  the  last  wave  pales: 
O  evening  dreams! 

There's  a  house  that  Britons  walked  in,  long  ago, 

Where  now  the  springs  of  ocean  fall  and  flow, 
And  the  dead  robed  in  red  and  sea-lilies  overhead 

Sway  when  the  long  winds  blow. 

Sleep  not,  my  country:  though  night  is  here,  afar 
Your  children  of  the  morning  are  clamorous  for  war: 
Fire  in  the  night,  O  dreams! 

Though  she  send  you  as  she  sent  you,  long  ago, 

South  to  desert,  east  to  ocean,  west  to  snow, 
West  of  these  out  to  seas  colder  than  the  Hebrides  I  must  go 
Where  the  fleet  of  stars  is  anchored,  and  the  young  Star-captains  glow. 

James  Elroy  Flecker. 


44  NEW  VOICES 

CINQUAINS 
FATE  DEFIED 
As  it 

Were  tissue  of  silver 
I'll  wear,  O  fate,  thy  grey, 
And  go,  mistly  radiant,  clad 
Like  the  moon. 

THE  GUARDED  WOUND 

Kit 

Were  lighter  touch 

Than  petal  of  flower  resting 

On  grass,  oh  still  too  heavy  it  were, 

Too  heavy! 

NOVEMBER  NIGHT 

Listen  .  .  . 

With  faint  dry  sound, 

Like  steps  of  passing  ghosts, 

The  leaves,  frost-crisp'd,  break  from  the  trees 

And  fall. 

Adelaide  Crapsey 

THE  CEDARS 

All  down  the  years  the  fragrance  came, 
The  mingled  fragrance,  with  a  flame, 
Of  Cedars  breathing  in  the  sun, 
The  Cedar-trees  of  Lebanon. 

O  thirst  of  song  in  bitter  air, 
And  hope,  wing-hurt  from  iron  care, 
What  balm  of  myrrh  and  honey,  won 
From  far-off  trees  of  Lebanon! 

Not  from  these  eyelids  yet,  have  I 
Ever  beheld  that  early  sky. 
Why  do  they  call  me  through  the  sun? — 
Even  the  trees  of  Lebanon? 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  45 


TAMPICO 

Oh,  cut  me  reeds  to  blow  upon, 

Or  gather  me  a  star, 
But  leave  the  sultry  passion-flowers 

Growing  where  they  are. 

I  fear  their  sombre  yellow  deeps, 

Their  whirling  fringe  of  black, 
And  he  who  gives  a  passion-flower 

Always  asks  it  back. 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

WHO  LOVES  THE  RAIN 

Who  loves  the  rain, 

And  loves  his  home, 
And  looks  on  life  with  quiet  eyes, 

Hun  will  I  follow  through  the  storm; 

And  at  his  hearth-fire  keep  me  warm; 
Nor  hell  nor  heaven  shall  that  soul  surprise, 

Who  loves  the  rain, 

And  loves  his  home, 
And  looks  on  life  with  quiet  eyes. 

Frances  Shaw 

A  CYPRIAN  WOMAN:  GREEK  FOLK  SONG 

Under  dusky  laurel  leaf, 

Scarlet  leaf  of  rose, 
I  lie  prone,  who  have  known 

All  a  woman  knows. 

Love  and  grief  and  motherhood, 

Fame  and  mirth  and  scorn — • 
These  are  all  shall  befall 

Any  woman  born. 

Jewel-laden  are  my  hands 

Tall  my  stone  above, 
Do  not  weep  that  I  sleep 

Who  was  wise  in  love. 


46  NEW  VOICES 

Where  I  walk,  a  shadow  gray 

Through  gray  asphodel, 
I  am  glad,  who  have  had 

All  that  life  can  tell. 

Margaret  Widdemer 

PSALM 

They  have  burned  to  Thee  many  tapers  in  many  temples: 
I  burn  to  Thee  the  taper  of  my  heart. 

They  have  sought  Thee  at  many  altars,  they  have  carried  lights  to 

find  Thee: 
I  find  thee  hi  The  white  fire  of  my  heart. 

They  have  gone  forth  restlessly,  forging  many  shapes,  images  where 

they  seek  Thee,  idols  of  deed  and  thought : 
Thou  art  the  fire  of  my  deeds;  Thou  art  the  white  flame  of  my  dreams. 

0  vanity!  They  know  things  and  codes  and  customs, 

They  believe  what  they  see  to  be  true;  but  they  know  not  Thee, 
Thou  art  within  the  light  of  their  eyes  that  see,  and  the  core  of  fire. 

The  white  fire  of  my  heart  forges  the  shapes  of  my  brain; 

The  white  fire  of  my  heart  is  a  sun,  and  my  deeds  and  thoughts  are  its 

dark  planets; 
It  is  a  far  flame  of  Thee,  a  star  in  Thy  firmament. 

With  pleasant  warmth  flicker  the  red  fires  of  the  hearth, 

And  the  blue,  mad  flames  of  the  marsh  flare  and  consume  themselves: 

1  too  am  an  ember  of  Thee,  a  little  star;  my  warmth  and  my  light  travel 

a  long  way. 

So  little,  so  wholly  given  to  its  human  quest, 

And  yet  of  Thee,  whoUy  of  Thee,  Thou  Unspeakable, 

All  the  colors  of  life  in  a  burning  white  mist 

Pure  and  intense  as  Thou,  O  Heart  of  life! 

Frail  is  my  taper,  it  flickers  in  the  storm, 

It  is  blown  out  in  the  great  wind  of  the  world: 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM  47 

Yet  when  the  world  is  dead  and  the  seas  are  a  crust  of  salt, 

When  the  sun  is  dark  in  heaven  and  the  stars  have  changed  their 

courses, 

Forever  somewhere  with  Thee,  on  the  altar  of  life 
Shall  still  burn  the  white  fire  of  my  heart. 

Jessie  E.  Sampler 

DEIRDRE 

Do  not  let  any  woman  read  this  verse; 
It  is  for  men,  and  after  them  their  sons 
And  their  sons'  sons. 

The  time  comes  when  our  hearts  sink  utterly; 
When  we  remember  Deirdre  and  her  tale, 
And  that  her  lips  are  dust. 

Once  she  did  tread  the  earth:  men  took  her  hand; 
They  looked  into  her  eyes  and  said  their  say, 
And  she  replied  to  them. 

More  than  a  thousand  years  it  is  since  she 
Was  beautiful:  she  trod  the  waving  grass; 
She  saw  the  clouds. 

A  thousand  years!  The  grass  is  still  the  same, 
The  clouds  as  lovely  as  they  were  that  time 
When  Deirdre  was  alive. 

But  there  has  never  been  a  woman  born 
Who  was  so  beautiful,  not  one  so  beautiful 
Of  all  the  women  born. 

Let  all  men  go  apart  and  mourn  together; 
No  man  can  ever  love  her;  not  a  man 
Can  ever  be  her  lover. 

No  man  can  bend  before  her:  no  man  say — 
What  could  one  say  to  her?  There  are  no  words 
That  one  could  say  to  her! 


48  NEW  VOICES 


Now  she  is  but  a  story  that  is  told 
Beside  the  fire!  No  man  can  ever  be 
The  friend  of  that  poor  queen. 

James  Stephens 

AN  APRIL  MORNING* 

Once  more  in  misted  April 
The  world  is  growing  green. 
Along  the  winding  river 
The  plumey  willows  lean. 

Beyond  the  sweeping  meadows 
The  looming  mountains  rise, 
Like  battlements  of  dreamland 
Against  the  brooding  skies. 

In  every  wooded  valley 
The  buds  are  breaking  through, 
As  though  the  heart  of  all  things 
No  languor  ever  knew. 

The  golden-wings  and  bluebirds 
Call  to  their  heavenly  choirs. 
The  pines  are  blued  and  drifted 
With  smoke  of  brushwood  fires. 

And  in  my  sister's  garden 
Where  little  breezes  run, 
The  golden  daffodillies 
Are  blowing  in  the  sun. 

Bliss  Carman 


THE  ANSWER 

When  I  go  back  to  earth 
And  all  my  joyous  body 
Puts  off  the  red  and  white 
That  once  had  been  so  proud, 

*From  April  Airs  by  Bliss  Carman,  copyright,  1916,  reprinted  by  permission  of  the 
publishers,  Small,  Maynard  &  Company,  Inc. 


THE  PATTERN  OF  A  POEM 

If  men  should  pass  above 
With  false  and  feeble  pity, 
My  dust  will  find  a  voice 
To  answer  them  aloud: 

"Be  still,  I  am  content, 

Take  back  your  poor  compassion  1 — 

Joy  was  a  flame  in  me 

Too  steady  to  destroy. 

Lithe  as  a  bending  reed 

Loving  the  storm  that  sways  her — 

I  found  more  joy  in  sorrow 

Than  you  could  find  in  joy." 

Sara  Teasdale 

WHAT  DIM  ARCADIAN  PASTURES 

What  dim  Arcadian  pastures 

Have  I  known 
That  suddenly,  out  of  nothing, 

A  wind  is  blown, 
Lifting  a  veil  and  a  darkness, 
Showing  a  purple  sea — 
And  under  your  hair  the  faun's  eyes 

Look  out  on  me? 

Alice  Corbin 


49 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM 

NOT  many  years  ago,  when  we  of  this  generation  attended 
school,  the  word  "rhythm"  had  an  occult  and  mysterious  sound. 
We  heard  very  little  about  it.  But  we  heard  of  "meter"  quite 
frequently.  "Meter"  meant  tiresome  exercises  in  "scansion." 
"Meter"  meant  memorizing  formidable  definitions  of  words 
like  "anapaest"  and  "amphibrach."  How  we  hated  it!  "Me- 
ter" and  "scansion"  were  good  for  us  because  they  provided 
"mental  drill,"  and  poetry  was  the  disastrous  result  of  the  in- 
vention of  "anapaest"  and  "amphibrach."  How  we  hated 
the  poets !  We  resolved  that  when  we  had  left  school  and  could 
choose  freely  we  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  poetry!  Unfortu- 
nately many  of  us  kept  the  resolution. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  we  became  men  and  women,  many 
of  us  realized  that  such  words  as  "anapaest"  and  "amphi- 
brach" were  made  and  defined  by  grammarians  and  critics,  not 
by  poets.  We  realized  that  this  technical  language  could  be 
made  useful  and  satisfactory  in  its  own  way.  Very  likely  the 
ability  to  analyze  and  dissect  the  metrical  structure  of  a  poem 
has  a  real  importance  for  the  well-educated  man  or  woman.  But 
many  of  us  learned  too  late  what  might  have  brought  us  nearer 
to  the  joy  of  poetry  if  we  had  learned  it  sooner,  that  this  ability 
to  analyze  and  dissect  metrical  structures  according  to  the  rules 
of  teachers  and  critics  is  of  small  importance  in  comparison 
with  the  ability  to  feel  a  beautiful  rhythm  and  enjoy  a  fine  poem. 
Who  ever  gave  us  a  clue  to  the  meaning  of  rhythm  in  poetry? 
Who  shared  with  us  a  sense  of  the  joy  and  beauty  in  the  rhythms 
of  English  verse?  Did  anyone  ever  tell  us,  for  our  comfort, 
that  many  a  maker  of  beautiful  lyrics  has  made  them  with  no 
knowledge  at  all  of  the  school-book  definitions  of  "anapaest" 
and  "amphibrach"  ? 

50 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  51 

Therefore  it  may  be  a  very  fortunate  thing  that  we  use  that 
prosaic  little  word  "meter"  less  nowadays,  and  that  we  have 
more  to  say  about  rhythm.  For  even  when  poets  can  not  define 
"anapaest"  and  "amphibrach,"  they  are  much  concerned  with 
the  use  of  them  and  with  their  effect  and  meaning. 

"Rhythm"  is  a  larger,  kinder,  and  more  poetic  word  than 
"meter."  It  comes  from  a  good  old  Greek  root  that  means 
"to  flow."  We  may  think  of  rhythm,  therefore,  as  we  think  of 
waves  or  ripples.  It  is  the  wave-like  flowing  of  sequences  of 
sound  in  poetry.  And,  in  thinking  of  it  in  this  way,  we  shall  be 
thinking  of  something  more  fundamentally  important  than  the 
rules  of  prosody  as  given  in  our  rhetorics.  We  shall  be  thinking 
of  the  force  that  is  behind  and  beyond  those  rules.  We  shall  be 
returning  to  the  source  whence  came  the  thing  about  which  rules 
have  been  made. 

In  English  poetry  nearly  always,  and  in  almost  all  other  poetry, 
rhythm  has  been  more  powerfully  felt  than  any  other  element. 
So  powerfully  does  a  strong  rhythm  work  upon  us  that  many 
persons  like  to  think  that  rhythm,  in  and  of  itself,  is  poetry. 
This  is  not  true,  of  course,  for  any  jargon  can  be  set  to  the  tune 
of  a  strong  rhythm.  And  many  rhythms  actually  have  been 
misused  in  this  way,  stupidly  by  imitators,  cleverly  by  parodists. 
Nevertheless,  poems  that  have  rhythmical  vitality,  poems  that 
sway  like  wind-driven  trees,  leap  like  great  geysers,  roll  sonorous 
monotones  in  upon  consciousness  at  regular  intervals,  like  the 
sea,  or  dance  gaily  like  little  white  fountains,  will  certainly 
be  heard  and  remembered  when  many  brilliant  pictures  and 
proverbs,  solemn  saws  and  pretty  sentiments,  have  been  for- 
gotten. 

This  is  inevitable  and  natural,  for  we  live  and  have  our  being 
in  rhythm.  A  flaw  in  the  rhythm  of  the  breath  may  mean  a 
disease  of  the  lungs.  A  flaw  in  the  rhythm  of  the  blood  may  mean 
a  disease  of  the  heart.  A  break  in  the  rhythm  may  mean  death. 
And  all  emotions  change  the  rhythms  of  the  body,  quickening 
or  retarding,  accentuating  or  interrupting.  In  these  facts  we 
find  the  reasons  for  the  value  of  rhythm  in  poetry. 


52  NEW  VOICES 

In  these  facts,  also,  we  find  the  reason  for  the  emotional 
effects  of  the  several  kinds  of  rhythm.  The  cadence  or  sound 
which  is  the  true  result  of  personal  emotion  will  produce  in  the 
reader  an  effect  of  the  same  or  similar  emotion.  Or,  when  a 
poet  is  more  than  personal,  when  he  shares  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
racial  or  national  feeling  and  puts  this  into  a  poem,  there  will  be 
something  more  than  mere  personal  emotion  in  the  effect  of  his 
rhythm  upon  his  reader.  Doubtless,  the  great  and  typical 
rhythms  that  distinguish  the  poetry  of  the  great  races — English 
blank  verse,  for  example,  or  the  heroic  hexameter  of  the  Greek, 
are  the  result  of  the  racial  way  of  feeling  things  and  putting 
them  into  speech.  The  epic  measure  of  the  Iliad  gives  again 
to  all  sensitive  listeners  a  share  in  the  emotions  of  the  men  of 
Homer's  nation.  The  Irish  dirges  used  in  keening  give  a  sense 
of  sorrow  and  death  to  any  person  in  any  land  whose  sense  of 
rhythmical  values  has  not  been  destroyed  by  bad  training;  and 
they  give  also  what  we  may  call  an  Irish  sense  of  sorrow  and 
death.  The  poets  of  the  Celtic  revival  in  the  United  States, 
poets  whose  work  is  imitative  and  written  a  la  mode,  with  an 
enthusiasm  for  the  Celtic  revival  as  an  inspiring  influence,  have 
never  been  able  to  get  into  their  work  any  of  this  unforgettable 
racial  quality  of  rhythm.  A  triolet,  on  the  other  hand,  is  simply 
a  rhythmical  echo  of  pretty,  whimsical,  personal  emotion. 
When  we  hear  a  good  triolet  read,  even  in  a  language  that  we 
do  not  know,  we  feel  that  touch  of  pretty,  whimsical,  personal 
emotion  in  the  rhythm.  We  are  stroked  by  the  wings  of  a  butter- 
fly, chastised  by  thistledown;  we  are  not  shaken  by  thunder, 
whipped  by  the  wind. 

Therefore  it  would  seem  reasonable  to  suppose  that,  when  a 
rhythm  is  chosen  arbitrarily,  selected  from  a  chapter  on  prosody 
in  a  rhetoric,  and  forced  into  unwilling  wedlock  with  a  mood  or 
meaning  which  might  have  been  fruitfully  happy  with  its  own 
congenial  cadence,  the  result  is  fundamental  disharmony,  bad 
poetry.  Moreover,  in  the  minds  of  great  lyric  singers  it  usually 
happens  that  emotion  suggests  the  idea  of  the  poem  and  the 
rhythm  of  it  simultaneously,  and  that  sense  and  sound  grow 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  53 

together  as  it  is  made.  The  mood  and  the  rhythm,  growing 
together  in  the  mind,  have  that  organic  unity  which  is  likely 
to  stir  the  emotion  of  the  reader  as  the  poet's  emotion  is  stirred; 
and  this  is  what  the  contemporary  poet  means  when  he  speaks 
of  "  organic  rhythm."  It  is  rhythm  of  one  kind  with  the  mood 
and  meaning  of  the  poem. 

Many  of  the  best  conscious  craftsmen  of  our  time  are  studying 
these  matters  of  the  emotional  causes  of  rhythm  and  its  emo- 
tional effect.  They  are  trying  many  experiments.  Most  of  the 
experiments  fail,  but  the  new  endeavor  to  create  new  beauty 
may  lead  to  a  new  kind  of  skill  and  to  the , production  of  new 
rhythmical  masterpieces,  and  tolerant  persons  will  welcome 
experiments  even  when  they  do  not  like  the  immediate  re- 
sults. 

What  is  sometimes  called  "the  vers  libre  movement"  seems  ta  / 
have  been  valuable  chiefly  because  it  has  been  a  way  of  making  \/ 
experiments  with  rhythm.  Few  poets  have  used  the  free 
rhythms  creditably,  not  to  say  beautifully.  And  unfortunately, 
numerous  poetasters  undisciplined  in  the  artistic  use  of  rhythm, 
and  ignorant  of  the  ancient,  symmetrical  designs  of  English 
verse,  persons  who  could  not  write  a  couplet  or  a  quatrain  cor- 
rectly, seized  the  opportunity  afforded  by  the  vogue  of  free 
verse  to  place  themselves  before  the  public  in  the  guise  of  poets. 
It  was  never  anything  more  than  a  mask.  They  wrote  in  what 
they  supposed  was  free  verse  for  no  better  reason  than  that  given 
by  the  lazy  housewife  who  had  beans  instead  of  potatoes  for 
dinner.  "It's  less  bother.  You  don't  have  to  peel  'em."  Such 
poetasters  simply  cut  up  long  lines  of  level  prose  rhythms  into 
random  lengths,  and  set  them  down  on  pages  that  would  have 
been  better  off  clean.  Such  chopped  up  prose  lines  had  no  poetic 
cadence  because  no  poetic  lift  of  emotion  produced  them,  or 
produced  a  rhythm  for  them.  Therefore  they  had  no  power  to 
produce  an  emotion  in  the  reader.  At  best  they  put  before  us  a 
more  or  less  trivial  mental  picture  or  stimulated  us  intellectually 
and  superficially  by  their  specious  imaginative  cleverness.  At 
worst  they  were  simply  banal,  or  else  they  aroused  in  the  reader 


54  NEW  VOICES 

by  shock  and  sensationalism  what  they  could  not  awaken  in  the 
ways  natural  and  appropriate  to  poetry,  a  sense  of  perverted 
excitement.  But,  when  the  novelty  of  it  had  worn  off,  we  were 
bored  rather  than  amused  by  the  shrieking,  grimacing,  head- 
line quality  of  much  that  was  called  free  verse.  Such  experi- 
ments failed  because  the  motives  of  their  makers  were  wrong. 
Such  experiments  were  not  sincerely  made  with  the  desire  to 
create  a  living  beauty.  They  were  idly  and  easily  made  with  the 
desire  to  write  quickly. 

In  general  it  may  be  said  that  the  poets  who  have  written 
best  in  free_verse  have  been  poets  skilled  in  thejuse  of  the  regular 
rhythms  of  English  verse.  But  even  these  poets  have  failed  far 
more  frequently  than  they  have  succeeded  in  the  making  of 
free  verse.  The  reason  for  their  failures  seems  to  be  found  in  the 
fact  that  their  very  great  interest  in  craftsmanship  for  its  own 
sake  has  caused  them  sometimes  to  work  too  intellectually. 
They  have  sometimes  disregarded  the  fact  that  real  emotion  is 
the  genesis  of  all  good  rhythm.  When  Amy  Lowell  and  Ezra 
Pound  fail  to  make  good  poems,  in  spite  of  their  comprehensive 
knowledge  of  the  art  of  poetry,  it  is  quite  probably  because  they 
are  creating  according  to  theory  and  not  as  result  of  genuine 
Jeelihg.  The  great  law  never  fails:  the  rhythm  that  is  the  result 
of  emotion  is  likely  to  have  value,  be  it  never  so  primitive;  the 
rhythm  that  is  the  result  of  intellectual  striving  will  be  as  dead 
as  the  dry,  still  sand  in  the  desert  at  noon. 

But  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  few  good  poems  have  been  written 
in  free  verse,  the  art  of  poetry  has  been  enriched  by  the  greater 
facility  which  this  experimenting  with  rhythms  has  made  pos- 
sible. No  one  has  shown  that  symmetry  of  design  may  not  be 
secured  in  a  poem  by  other  means  than  the  use  of  rhythm,  letting 
rhythm  be  varied  from  line  to  line  in  accordance  with  mood 
and  meaning;  and  the  ideal  of  a  great  poem  written  in  verse 
freer  than  that  of  any  known  masterpiece  and  yet  powerfully 
rhythmical  and  well  designed,  is  an  ideal  which  no  poet  should 
be  willing  to  banish  from  his  heart  and  hope.  For  the  few  good 
poems  written  in  free  verse  are  so  very  good  that  they  confirm 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  55 

us  in  the  faith  that  verse,  made  by  a  master,  may  be  very  free 
and  very  beautiful.  Whenever  free  verse  has  been  written  in 
accordance  with  an  ideal  of  poetic  beauty,  and  sincerely,  as  the 
result  of  genuine  emotion,  it  has  a  characteristic  and  unforget- 
table magic. 

Constance  Lindsay  Skinner's  poems  of  the  life  of  the  American 
Indian  are  written  in  admirable  free  verse.  They  are  strongly 
charged  with  the  primitive  emotions  of  life.  They  are  very 
simple,  natural  and  direct  in  style.  And  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  typical  cadences  are  not  repeated  frequently  enough,  in 
most  of  the  poems,  to  make  a  very  regular  pattern,  we  find  in  the 
cadences  a  very  real  pleasure,  the  kind  of  pleasure  that  we  feel 
in  simple,  passionate  speech.  Her  "Song  of  The  Full  Catch" 
is  more  symmetrical  in  design  than  most  of  the  other  poems  and 
has  a  most  moving  rhythm.  It  is  an  unusually  beautiful  poem, 
beginning  with  the  lines, 

"Here's  good  wind,  here's  sweet  wind, 
Here's  good  wind  and  my  woman  calls  me!" 

In  her  "Song  of  Cradle-Making"  the  cadences  are  even  more 
like  the  cadences  of  speech: 

"I  will  trim  thy  cradle  with  many  shells,  and  with  cedar-fringes; 
Thou  shalt  have  goose  feathers  on  thy  blanket! 
I  will  bear  thee  in  my  hands  along  the  beach, 
Singing  as  the  sea  sings," 

Sure  and  strong  fidelity  to  the  laws  of  passionate  human  speech 
is  what  makes  these  lines  poetry. 

Carl  Sandburg  is  another  American  poet  who  makes  hi 


poems  with  what  we  may  call  the  rhythms  of  ^pperh.  in  all  ol 
His  poems  we  hear  a  man  talking.  He  rarely  sings.  His  song  is 
always  speech.  Sometimes  the  speech  is  inflated  and  bombastic 
and  oratorical.  But  always  it  is  vivid  and  interesting  and  always 
it  shares  life  with  us.  In  his  quaint  little  poem,  "  Monosyllabic," 
he  even  says  this  very  thing  about  himself. 


$6  NEW  VOICES 

"Let  me  be  a  monosyllabic  to-day,  O  Lord. 
Yesterday  I  loosed  a  snarl  of  words  on  a  fool,  on  a  child. 
To-day,  let  me  be  monosyllabic  ...  a  crony  of  old  men  who  wash 
sunlight  in  their  fingers  and  enjoy  slow-pacing  clocks." 

This  is  simply  beautiful  speech,  especially  beautiful  in  the  last 
line,  arranged  in  a  rhythm  of  aspiration,  or,  if  you  like  it  better, 
of  petition,  prayer.  In  his  screed  addressed  to  "A  Contem- 
porary Bunkshooter"  he  is  simply  a  man  talking  violently, 
more  violently  than  anybody  who  is  not  a  poet  can  talk,  and 
in  his  serenely  beautiful  poem,  "  Cool  Tombs/'  we  find  poetic 
speech  again. 

"Pocahontas'  body,  lovely  as  a  poplar,  sweet  as  a  red  haw  in  No- 
vember or  a  paw-paw  in  May,  did  she  wonder?  does  she  re- 
member? ...  in  the  dust,  in  the  cool  tombs? 

Here  the  long,  level,  undulating  rhythms  of  ordinary  prose  are 
broken  just  as  they  would  be  in  intimate  and  eloquent  conversa- 
tion. 

John  Gould  Fletcher  is  another  American  poet  who  has  writ- 
ten creditable  free  verse.  But  his  ideal  is  not  an  ideal  of  speech 
in  poetry.  He  is  not  a  poet  of  Mr.  Sandburg's  kind.  He  is  an 
Imagist,  and  believes  that  poetry  is  the  setting  forth  of  "  im- 
ages" in  rhythmical  language  in  such  a  way  as  will  make  them 
stimulate  emotion  in  the  reader.  His  best  work  is  excellent 
poetry,  really  felt,  heartily  imagined,  adequately  expressed  in 
rhythm.  One  of  the  finest  strophes  he  has  written,  and  one 
quite  typical  of  his  genius,  is  the  first  in  "Irradiations."  It 
should  be  read  aloud  and  with  due  regard  for  the  pauses.  Other- 
wise the  beauty  of  it  may  be  lost. 

"Over  the  roof-tops  race  the  shadows  of  clouds: 
Like  horses  the  shadows  of  clouds  charge  down  the  street. 

Whirlpools  of  purple  and  gold, 

Winds  from  the  mountains  of  cinnabar, 

Lacquered  mandarin  moments,  palanquins  swaying  and  balancing, 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  57 

Amid  the  vermiliion  pavilions,  against  the  jade  balustrades; 
Glint  of  the  glittering  wings  of  dragon  flies  in  the  light 
Silver  filaments,  golden  flakes  settling  downwards; 
Rippling,  quivering  flutters;  repulse  and  surrender, 
The  sun  broidered  upon  the  rain, 
The  rain  rustling  with  the  sun. 

Over  the  roof-tops  race  the  shadows  of  clouds; 

Like  horses  the  shadows  of  clouds  charge  down  the  street." 

In  this  poem,  obviously,  the  cadences  are  conditioned  by  the 
imagery.  They  move  with  it  fluently  and  are  of  one  kind  with 
it.  Organic  rhythm  again  and  free  rhythm  again,  but  a  rhythm 
of  a  kind  very  different  from  that  used  by  Miss  Skinner  and  Mr. 
Sandburg.  To  be  sure,  the  chief  cunning  of  the  lines  is  to  be 
found  in  the  picture  presented  with  shrewdly  chosen  color- 
words  and  words  that  show  movement.  "  Vermiliion  pavilions," 
"jade  balustrades,"  "golden  flakes  settling  downward,"  "rip- 
pling, quivering  flutters" — what  a  group  of  pictures,  what  a 
series  of  sound  echoes!  But  in  the  rhythm  of  the  two  lines  that 
begin  and  end  the  strophe  we  find  another  good  and  sufficient 
reason  for  the  vitality  of  this  free  verse. 

Somewhat  less  regularly  stressed  is  the  rhythm  of  "The  Most 
Sacred  Mountain"  by  Eunice  Tietjens.  This  is  a  poem  of  exul- 
tation, and  the  rhythm  of  it  is  rhapsodic,  passionate,  and,  for 
that  very  reason,  fluent  and  free.  The  first  three  lines  say,  with 
absolute  fidelity  to  emotion,  what  one  might  desire  to  say  in  a 
mood  of  exultation,  what  one  would  be  likely  not  to  say,  for 
lack  of  power  to  feel  and  speak  at  the  same  time. 

"  Space,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  of  heaven, 

And  this  sharp  exultation,  like  a  cry,  after  the  slow  six  thousand  feet 

of  climbing! 
This  is  Tai  Shan,  the  beautiful,  the  most  holy." 

The  truth  of  this  rhythm  as  an  expression  of  emotion  can  be 
felt  strongly  even  by  persons  who  do  not  like  the  kind  of  free 
verse  which  has  been  called  "shredded  prose."  Where  then, 


58  NEW  VOICES 

can  we  find  the  boundary  line  between  verse  and  prose?  Per- 
haps we  can  not  find  it.  As  the  lines  grow  longer  and  vary  more 
in  the  matter  of  the  recurrence  of  stresses,  the  rhythms  become 
more  like  prose,  less  like  song.  But  it  would  be  very  difficult 
indeed  to  tell  just  when  lines  become  too  long  and  level  to  be- 
long to  verse.  And  other  matters  must  be  considered  with  the 
matter  of  rhythm  in  determining  whether  any  bit  of  literature 
is  poetry  or  prose.  We  must  take  into  account  the  conciseness 
of  the  expression,  the  emotional  or  intellectual  quality,  the 
imagery  and  symbolism,  the  power  of  the  imagination  in  the 
presentation  of  the  theme.  But  if  any  bit  of  literature  be  good 
literature,  we  may  find  legitimate  enjoyment  in  it,  even  if  we 
are  unable  to  classify  it.  As  a  craftsman's  attempt  at  classifi- 
cation, however,  Amy  Lowell's  definition  seems  to  be  the  most 
satisfactory  definition  yet  made.  It  is  geometrical.  Miss 
Lowell  says  that  regularly  stressed  verse  may  be  represented 
by  a  line  sharply  curved  back  upon  itself,  that  prose  may  be  rep- 
resented by  an  undulating  line  running  straight  ahead  in  any 
one  direction,  and  that  free  verse  may  be  represented  by  a  line 
with  a  curve  less  sharp  than  the  line  representing  regularly 
stressed  verse.  Perhaps  she  would  say  that  her  own  poly- 
phonic prose  is  like  a  line  undulating  more  regularly  than  the 
line  of  ordinary  prose.  At  any  rate,  that  would  be  a  good  de- 
scription of  the  rhythm  of  her  polyphonic  prose.  And  since 
polyphonic  prose  is  a  new  kind  of  organic  rhythm,  something 
should  be  said  about  it  here. 

In  the  first  place,  Miss  Lowell  introduced  it  into  our  language, 

and  no  one  else  who  is  writing  English  poetry  has  made  any 

noteworthy  attempt  to  use  it.    It  is  a  prose  with  typical  ca4 

dences  reiterated  at  intervals  and  with  many  rhymes  and  sound! 

,  echoes.    Like  regular  verse  and  like  the  best  free  verse  its  source 

I  is  in  genuine  emotion.    But  like  prose  it  is  not  lyrical.    It  does 

not  sing.    The  lines  of  it  move  forever  forward.     There  is  no 

backward  curve,  no  return.    It  is,  therefore,  an  admirable  form 

for  narratives.     For  it  intensifies  our  sense  of  excitement  and 

bears  us  on  to  the  end  with  a  greater  fluency  than  that  of  or- 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  59 

dinary  prose.  The  reading  of  polyphonic  prose  gives  a  sense  of 
rapid  movement  that  level,  unrhymed  prose  lacks.  The  quality 
of  Miss  Lowell's  polyphonic  prose  rhythms  is  essentially  dra- 
matic. These  lines  from  a  superb  narrative  poem,  "The  Bronze 
Horses,"  show  what  polyphonic  prose  can  be  at  its  best: 

"What  is  the  sound?  The  marble  city  shivers  to  the  treading  of 
feet.  Caesar's  legions  marching,  foot — foot — hundreds,  thousands  of 
feet.  They  beat  the  ground,  rounding  each  step  double.  Coming — 
coming — cohort  after  cohort,  with  brazen  trumpets  marking  the  time. 
One — two — one — two — laurel-crowned  each  one  of  you,  cactus-fibred, 
harsh  as  sand  grinding  the  rocks  of  a  treeless  land,  rough  and 
salt  as  Dead  Sea  wind,  only  the  fallen  are  left  behind.  Blood-red 
plumes,  jarring  to  the  footfalls;  they  have  passed  through  the  gate, 
they  are  in  the  walls  of  the  mother  city,  of  marble  Rome.  Back  to 
Rome  with  a  victor's  spoils,  with  a  victor's  wreath  on  every  head, 
and  Judah  broken  is  dead,  dead!  llo  triumphel'  The  shout  knocks 
and  breaks  upon  the  spears  of  the  legionaries." 

Our  illustrations  might  be  multiplied  without  giving  an  ade- 
quate sense  of  the  pleasure  to  be  had  from  reading  a  whole 
poem  in  polphonic  prose  aloud.  For  that  is  the  only  way  to 
test  the  value  of  it.  Free  verse  and  polphonic  prose  have  re- 
ceived more  superficial  attention  than  honest  consideration; 
and  that  is  unfortunate,  for  superficial  attention  is  only  adver- 
tisement; honest  consideration  may  find  a  recipe  or  a  cure. 
But  if  many  persons  would  read  these  poems  aloud  and  if  we 
might  have  a  consensus  of  their  opinions,  we  might  find  a  way 
of  estimating  the  value  of  such  rhythms.  Before  the  value  of 
any  kind  of  poetry  can  be  determined  it  must  be  set  free  from 
the  print  on  the  pages  of  a  book. 

Before  we  go  on  to  a  consideration  of  organic  rhythms  of  a 
kind  more  regularly  stressed  and  in  more  symmetrical  designs,, 
it  is  well  to  note  that  William  Morrison  Patterson  of  Columbia 
• University  has  written  a  book  which  should  go  into  the  hands  of 
young  poetry  craftsmen  in  company  with  Sidney  Lanier's 
"Science  of  English  Verse."  It  is  called  "The  Rhythm  of 
Prose,"  and  in  it  Professor  Patterson  describes  his  tests  of 


60  NEW  VOICES 

the  time-values  of  rhythm.  The  book  is  written  in  a  scientific 
rather  than  an  inspirational  vein,  but  is  the  more  valuable 
for  that  reason.  Poets  can  usually  find  inspiration.  But 
their  knowledge  of  rhythm  can  be  increased  by  a  careful  pres- 
entation of  facts  discovered  through  experiment.  This  is  a 
book  for  all  who  wish  to  make  a  thorough  and  careful  study  of 
the  subject  of  rhythm. 

The  poets  who  have  written  in  free  verse  are  not  the  only 
ones  who  have  rediscovered  the  ancient  law  of  all  good  poetry, 
which  is  that  rhythm  must  rise  out  of  the  emotion  felt.  All  of 
the  poets  who  have  recently  won  the  attention  of  critics  and  the 
interest  of  the  most  intelligent  and  imaginative  public  make 
evident  their  reverence  for  this  law. 

One  of  the  masterpieces  of  modern  rhythm  is  Gilbert  K.  Ches- 
terton's "Lepanto,"  a  superb  martial  ballad  about  the  Battle 
of  Lepanto  fought  between  the  Turks  and  Don  John  of  Austria 
in  1571.  From  end  to  end  of  the  poem  the  rhythm  is  a  de- 
light. Words,  phrases,  images  flash  and  sparkle,  riding  lightly 
on  the  surface  of  the  tune.  But  the  rhythm  stirs  the  very  depths 
of  the  spirit,  for  it  is  very  swift  and  strong,  very  large  and  ample, 
yet  never  monotonous,  for  it  includes  a  great  variety  of  minor 
cadences.  Just  when  the  length  of  the  long  lines  with  their 
powerful  stresses  can  hardly  be  sustained  any  longer  by  heart 
and  voice,  the  lines  ebb  into  shorter  lines  with  sharper  rhythmical 
curves  and  with  accents  like  arrows  newly  fallen  and  quivering 
with  shock.  These  lines  illustrate  the  power  of  the  rhythm  of 
the  poem  as  well  as  any  other  lines  that  might  be  taken  from  it 
to  stand  alone: 

"In  that  enormous  silence,  tiny  and  unafraid, 

Comes  up  along  a  winding  road  the  noise  of  the  Crusade. 

Strong  gongs  groaning  as  the  guns  boom  far, 

Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war, 

Stiff-flags  straining  in  the  night-blasts  cold 

In  the  gloom  black-purple,  in  the  glint  old-gold, 

Torchlight  crimson  on  the  copper  kettle-drums, 

Then  the  tuckets,  then  the  trumpets,  then  the  cannon,  and  he  comes. 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  61 

Don  John  laughing  in  the  brave  beard  curled, 
Spurning  of  his  stirrups  like  the  thrones  of  all  the  world, 
Holding  his  head  up  for  a  flag  of  all  the  free. 
Love-light  of  Spain — hurrah! 
Death-light  of  Africa! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  riding  to  the  sea." 

In  strong  contrast  with  the  martial  clangor  and  speed  of  this 
rhythm  is  the  swaying  and  restful  movement  of  Max  Eastman's 
"  Coming  To  Port,"  a  rhythm  with  all  the  enchanting  languor 
of  movement  that  is  in  the  great  steamer  slowing  down  to  anchor 
beside  a  dock.  One  does  not  need  to  be  a  sapient  critic  to  feel 
the  oneness  of  this  rhythm  with  the  theme  and  emotion  of  the 
poem.  It  is  wistful  and  quiet  in  sound  and  meaning,  a  slow 
and  sensuous  reverie. 

"Our  motion  on  the  soft,  still,  misty  river 
Is  like  rest;  and  like  the  hours  of  doom 
That  rise  and  follow  one  another  ever 
Ghosts  of  sleeping  battle  cruisers  loom 
And  languish  quickly  in  the  liquid  gloom." 

Very  often  in  rhymed  and  regularly  stressed  poetry,  as  in  the 
free  verse  which  we  have  already  discussed,  we  can  trace  the 
origin  of  good  rhythm  by  taking  a  clue  from  the  opening  line  or 
lines,  which  seem  to  be  like  natural  speech.  In  Walter  de  la 
Mare's  charmingly  melodic  poem,  "The  Listeners,"  it  seems  pos- 
sible that  the  rhythm  of  the  whole  may  have  been  determined  by 
the  cadence  of  the  first  line. 

"'Is  there  anybody  there?'  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

On  the  forest's  ferny  floor: 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head: 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time; 

'Is  there  anybody  there?'  he  said." 


62  NEW  VOICES 

If  this  poem  had  been  as  well  begun  by  a  man  without  genius, 
it  would  certainly  have  been  spoiled  in  the  third  line.  It  would 
have  faltered,  flattened  out  and  become  monotonous.  We  should 
have  had  a  third  line  something  like  this — "His  horse  would 
champ  the  grasses."  And  the  rest  of  the  poem,  which  is  a  mas- 
terpiece of  its  kind,  would  have  been  made  to  go  by  jerks.  The 
sense  and  style  would  have  been  sacrificed  to  regularity  and  a 
very  beautiful  and  original  rhythm  would  never  have  been  heard. 
Let  us  be  thankful  that  Mr.  de  la  Mare  wrote  his  poem — all  of  it! 

Similarly  Rudyard  Kipling,  whose  rhythms  are  exceedingly 
modern  in  quality,  although  he  began  writing  before  most  of 
our  contemporary  poets  who  are  famous  to-day,  seems  to  take 
a  cadence  of  speech  as  the  rhythmical  beginning  of  many  of  his 
poems.  And  it  is  a  well  known  fact  that  his  rhythms  are  largely 
responsible  for  the  great  popularity  of  his  poetry.  In  that  jolly 
"Road  Song  of  the  Bandar  Log"  we  find  the  following  lines: 

"Here  we  go  in  a  flung  festoon 

Half  way  up  to  the  jealous  moon! 

Don't  you  envy  our  pranceful  bands? 

Don't  you  wish  you  had  extra  hands? 

Wouldn't  you  like  if  your  tail  were — so — 

Curved  in  the  shape  of  a  Cupid's  bow? 
Now  you're  angry,  but — never  mind, 
Brother,  thy  tail  hangs  down  behind!" 


It  may  very  well  be  that  Mr.  Kipling,  visualizing  in  his  own 
mind  that  "branchy  row"  of  monkeys,  began  his  rhythm  quite 
spontaneously,  and,  in  the  reader's  mind,  irresistibly,  with  that 
natural  bit  of  speech  "Here  we  go."  If  this  be  true,  he  had  only 
to  add  the  good  imagery  of  "in  a  flung  festoon"  to  have  a  fine 
rhythmical  tune  for  his  poem. 

Another  poem,  an  excellent  lyric  which  may  have  been  made 
in  much  the  same  way,  is  Margaret  Widdemer's  "Remembrance: 
Greek  Folk  Song."  The  rhythm  of  the  whole  poem  seems  to  have 
grown  naturally  from  the  first  cadence.  "Not  unto  the  forest, 
O  my  lover!" 


MARGARET   WIDDEMER 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  63 

More  than  any  poet  who  uses  regularly  stressed  rhythms, 
Robert  Frost  is  influenced  by  the  tunes  of  human  conversation, 
and  he  is  the  greatest  living  master  of  the  poetry  that  talks. 
Although  he  has  written  a  few  good  lyrics,  song  is  not  his  gift. 
But  in  all  of  his  poems  we  find  something  of  the  warmth  and 
depth  and  richness,  the  sudden  humor,  the  droll  whimsy,  the 
characteristic  innuendo  and  flexible  intimacy  of  conversation. 
To  read  them  is  to  share  profound  mirth,  amazing  tragedy, 
delicious  irony  made  out  of  talk  and  of  one  substance  with  it. 
But  Mr.  Frost's  poems  are  always  more  than  speech.  They  are 
always  poetry.  They  never  become  mere  oratory.  And  most  of 
them  keep  very  close  to  blank  verse  as  a  basic  rhythm,  the  old 
racial  rhythm  of  our  language.  Perhaps  it  would  be  true  to  say 
that  Mr.  Frost  uses  a  relaxed  form  of  blank  verse  greatly  modi- 
fied by  the  cadences  of  speech. 

"Something  there  is  that  doesn't  love  a  wall,"  says  Mr.  Frost. 
A  Post- Victorian  imitator  of  the  great  Victorians  would  never 
have  written  such  a  line.  He  might  have  said  something  like 
this— 

"A  wall,  I  think,  is  quite  superfluous!" 

thereby  sacrificing  nature  and  imagination — poetry — to  a 
school-book  rule  of  accent.  The  poem  would  have  lacked  what 
all  poems  must  have — life.  Consider  the  homely  life  in  this 
passage  taken  from  the  same  poem,  "Mending  Wall." 

"He  only  says,  'Good  fences  make  good  neighbors.' 
Spring  is  the  mischief  in  me,  and  I  wonder 
If  I  could  put  a  notion  in  his  head? 
Why  do  they  make  good  neighbors?    Isn't  it 
Where  there  are  cows?    But  here  there  are  no  cows. 
Before  I  built  a  wall  I'd  ask  to  know 
What  I  was  walling  in  or  walling  out, 
And  to  whom  I  was  like  to  give  offence. 
Something  there  is  that  doesn't  love  a  wall, 
That  wants  it  down.    I  could  say  'Elves'  to  him, 
But  it's  not  elves  exactly,  and  I'd  rather 
He  said  it  for  himself." 


64  NEW  VOICES 

When  we  read  lines  like  these  we  do  not  need  to  be  told  that 
Mr.  Frost  uses  blank  verse  as  others  have  not  used  it.  Here  is 
blank  verse  written  with  respect  for  the  plain,  stubborn  wills  and 
voices  of  his  story,  the  wills  and  voices  that  twist  and  turn  and 
alter  and  exalt  language  by  their  daily  use  of  it.  It  is  probable 
that  critics  who  have  called  Mr.  Frost's  work  lumpy  and  uneven 
have  simply  failed  to  understand  his  idea  of  what  poetry  ought  to 
be. 

But  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  rhythm  as  the  accompani- 
ment of  mood  and  meaning,  organic  rhythm  at  its  best,  is  "The 
Santa  Fe  Trail"  by  Vachel  Lindsay.  And  in  all  American  liter- 
ature we  find  no  greater  master  of  rhythm  than  he.  It  is  our 
absurd  fashion  to  treat  his  poems  with  jocular  kindness  because 
they  are  popular,  and  because  they  are  so  full  of  our  folk  lore 
and  our  folk  spirit  that  we  fail  to  perceive  how  very  good  they 
are.  It  may  be  worth  while  to  say  that  when  William  Butler 
Yeats  last  visited  this  country  he  went  to  Chicago  and  met  Vachel 
Lindsay.  He  greeted  him  as  the  first  American  poet  of  to-day. 

Certainly  Vachel  Lindsay  can  do  anything  he  likes  with 
rhythm.  His  rhythms  skip  and  turn  somersaults,  rock  and 
reel,  whirl  giddily,  bend  and  sway  solemnly,  march  slowly  in 
great  circles,  shake  the  air  looser  in  the  heavens  and  give  a  new 
exhilaration  and  exuberance  to  all  but  the  stiff-necked  and 
stupid.  No  other  poem  shows  his  power  as  a  master  of  poetic 
music  better  than  "The  Santa  Fe  Trail." 

In  it  are  three  tunes.  First  there  is  the  tune  of  the  racing 
automobiles  going  westward  on  the  road  that  runs  parallel  to 
the  double-track  railroad,  and  of  then:  honking  horns  that  speak 
the  souls  of  their  owners.  This  is  a  crashing,  blaring,  hurrying, 
discordant  tune.  When  we  hear  it  we  forget  that  we  are  reading 
poetry.  We  see  those  speeding  cars.  We  watch  the  United 
States  going  by.  We  hear  the  shrill  and  the  raucus  voices  of  the 
horns.  Nothing  could  be  better  in  the  way  of  verisimilitude  of 
presentation. 

"On  through  the  ranges  the  prairie-dog  tills, 
Scooting  past  the  cattle  on  the  thousand  hills.  .  . 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  65 

Ho  for  the  tear-horn,  scare-horn,  dare-horn, 
Ho  for  the  gay-horn,  bark-horn,  bay-horn. 
Ho  for  Kansas,  land  that  restores  us 
When  houses  choke  us  and  great  books  bore  us!" 

It  is  to  that  pace  that  the  first  tune  runs. 

The  second  tune  is  that  of  the  poet's  own  reverie  as  he  sits 
"by  another  big  Santa  Fe  stone,"  a  quiet  and  slow  rhythm  al- 
though it  is  closely  related  to  the  first  noisy  and  speedy  rhythm. 

"My  goal  is  the  mystery  the  beggars  win. 
I  am  caught  in  the  web  the  night-winds  spin. 
The  edge  of  the  wheat-ridge  speaks  to  me ; 
I  talk  with  the  leaves  of  the  mulberry  tree." 

And  the  third  tune  is  that  of  the  shy  "Rachel- Jane"  singing 
"far  away,"  a  little  lyric  melody  not  at  all  like  the  other  tunes 
of  the  poem  and  yet  belonging  to  both  of  them. 

"Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

Dew  and  glory, 

Love  and  truth — 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet!" 

We  shall  find  this  rhythmical  verisimilitude  of  presentation 
in  all  of  Mr.  Lindsay's  best  work,  his  social  and  choral  poetry, 
and  we  shall  look  a  long  time  for  it  before  we  find  it  elsewhere. 
It  is  the  very  strength  of  "The  Kallyope  Yell."  Who  that  has 
heard  the  "Kallyope"  on  circus  day  does  not  remember  its 
"Willy,  willy,  wah-hoo!"  and  the  humorous  finality  of  its 
"Szz-fizz?"  Who  has  not  heard  it  squeal  and  shriek, 

"I  am  the  Kallyope,  Kallyope,  Kallyope, 

Tooting  hope,  tooting  hope,  tooting  hope,  tooting  hope!" 

And  then  there  is  that  much  bigger  and  more  important  work, 
"The  Congo,"  one  of  the  best  poems  ever  written  about  the 
American  negro,  a  poem  full  of  the  strength,  the  music,  the  bar- 
baric love  of  color,  and  the  wild  religion  of  the  race.  The  rhyth- 
mical tune  of  it  is  so  much  a  part  of  the  sense  of  it  and  of  the 


66  NEW  VOICES 

emotion  and  picturing  that  one  can  hardly  separate  it  from  them 
for  purposes  of  analysis. 

"Fat  black  bucks  in  a  wine-barrel  room, 

Barrel-house  kings  with  feet  unstable, 

Sagged  and  reeled  and  pounded  on  the  table, 

Pounded  on  the  table, 

Beat  an  empty  barrel  with  the  handle  of  a  broom, 

Hard  as  they  were  able, 

Boom,  boom,  boom, 

With  a  silk  umbrella  and  the  handle  of  a  broom, 

Boomlay,  boomlay,  boomlay,  boom. 

Then  I  had  religion,  then  I  had  a  vision 

I  could  not  turn  from  their  revel  in  derision. 

Then  I  saw  the  Congo  creeping  through  the  Hack, 
Cutting  through  the  forest  with  a  golden  track" 

Perhaps  enough  has  been  said  about  organic  rhythm  in  con- 
temporary poetry  to  show  what  the  best  living  poets  think  about 
it  and  how  they  use  it.  They  are  teaching  us  what  men  forgot 
in  the  ages  when  poetry  was  a  bookish  art,  what  minstrels  have 
always  made  us  remember  and  what  lyric  singers  dream  of — 
the  beautiful  art  of  hearing.  Once  again  our  ears  are  being 
trained  to  hear  the  beauty  of  tl^e  Word.  Poetry  to-day,  like 
the  best  poetry  of  all  periods,/is  the  result  of  a  sincere  act  of 
creation  that  unites  meaning  and  emotion  with  melody,  as  with 
images  and  symbols.  Nothing  is  artistically  worse  than  indig- 
nation waltzing,  unless  it  is  sorrow  capering  to  the  lilt  of  a  tango 
or  joy  droning  a  dirge. 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM 


67 


THE  SANTA  F£  TRAIL— A  HUMORESQUE 

I  asked  the  old  negro,  "What  is  that  bird  that  sings  so  well?"  He  an- 
swered, "That  is  the  Rachel-Jane"  "Hasn't  it  another  name — 
lark,  or  thrush,  or  the  like?  "  "No,  jus '  Rachel- Jane." 


In  which  a  Racing  Auto  comes  from  the  East. 

This  is  the  order  of  the  music  of  the  morning: —  ToJ*  sung  deli- 

First,  from  the  far  East  comes  but  a  crooning;  provised  tune 

The  crooning  turns  to  a  sunrise  singing. 
Hark  to  the  calm-horn,  balm-horn,  psalm-horn; 
Hark  to  the  faint-horn,  quaint-horn,  saint-horn  .... 


Hark  to  the  pace-horn,  chase-horn,  race-horn! 

And  the  holy  veil  of  the  dawn  has  gone, 

Swiftly  the  brazen  car  comes  on. 

It  burns  in  tn*e~  East  as  the  sunrise  burns 

I  see  great  flashes  where  the  far  trail  turns. 

Its  eyes  are  lamps  like  the  eyes  of  dragons. 

It  drinks  gasoline  from  big  red  flagons. 

Butting  through  the  delicate  mists  of  the  morning, 

It  comes  like  lightning,  goes  past  roaring. 

It  will  hail  all  the  wind-mills,  taunting,  ringing, 

Dodge  the  cyclones, 

Count  the  milestones, 

On  through  the  ranges  the  prairie-dog  tills, 

^Scooting  past  the  cattle  on  the  thousand  hills  .... 

Ho  for  the  tear-horn,  scare-horn,  dare-horn, 

Ho  for  the  gay-horn,  bark-horn,  bay-horn. 

Ho  for  Kansas,  land  that  restores  us 

When  houses  choke  us,  and  great  books  bore  us! 

Sunrise  Kansas,  harvester's  Kansas, 

A  million  men  have  found  you  before  us. 

II 

In  which  Many  Autos  pass  Westward. 

I  want  live  things  in  their  pride  to  remain. 
I  will  not  kill  one  grasshopper  vain 


To  be  sung  or 
read  with  great 


To  be  read  or 
sung  in  a  rolling 
bass  with  some 
deliberation. 


In  an  even,  de- 
liberate, narra- 
tive manner 


68  .       NEW  VOICES 

Though  he  eats  a  hole  in  my  shirt  like  a  door. 
I  let  him  out,  give  him  one  chance  more. 
Perhaps,  while  he  gnaws  my  hat  in  his  whim, 
Grasshopper  lyrics  occur  to  him. 

I  am  a  tramp  by  the  long  trail's  border, 
Given  to  squalor,  rags  and  disorder. 
I  nap  and  amble  and  yawn  and  look, 
Write  fool-thoughts  in  my  grubby  book, 
Recite  to  the  children,  explore  at  my  ease, 
Work  when  I  work,  beg  when  I  please, 
Give  crank  drawings,  that  make  folks  stare, 
To  the  half -grown  boys  in  the  sunset-glare; 
And  get  me  a  place  to  sleep  in  the  hay 
At  the  end  of  a  live-and-let-live  day. 

I  find  in  the  stubble  of  the  new-cut  weeds 
A  whisper  and  a  feasting,  all  one  needs: 
The  whisper  of  the  strawberries,  white  and  red, 
Here  where  the  new-cut  weeds  lie  dead. 
But  I  would  not  walk  all  alone  till  I  die 
Without  some  life-drunk  horns  going  by. 
Up  round  this  apple-earth  they  come, 
Blasting  the  whispers  of  the  morning  dumb: — 
Cars  in  a  plain  realistic  row. 
And  fair  dreams  fade 
When  the  raw  horns  blow. 

On  each  snapping  pennant 

A  big  black  name — 

The  careering  city 

Like  a  train-        Whence  each  car  came. 
Dep£tm  They  tour  from  Memphis,  Atlanta,  Savannah, 

Tallahassee  and  Texarkana. 

They  tour  from  St.  Louis,  Columbus,  Manistee, 

They  tour  from  Peoria,  Davenport,  Kankakee. 

Cars  from  Concord,  Niagara,  Boston, 

Cars  from  Topeka,  Emporia  and  Austin. 

Cars  from  Chicago,  Hannibal,  Cairo, 

Cars  from  Alton,  Oswego,  Toledo. 

Cars  from  Buffalo,  Kokomo,  Delphi, 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  69 

Cars  from  Lodi,  Carmi,  Loami. 

Ho  for  Kansas,  land  that  restores  us 

When  houses  choke  us,  and  great  books  bore  us! 

While  I  watch  the  highroad 

And  look  at  the  sky, 

While  I  watch  the  clouds  hi  amazing  grandeur 

Roll  their  legions  without  rain 

Over  the  blistering  Kansas  plain  — 

While  I  sit  by  the  milestone 

And  watch  the  sky, 

The  United  States 

Goes  by! 

Listen  to  the  iron  horns,  ripping,  racking.  EilB/^thT7 

Listen  to  the  quack  horns,  slack  and  clacking!  snapping  ex- 

Way  down  the  road,  trilling  like  a  toad, 

Here  comes  the  dice-horn,  here  comes  the  vice-horn, 

Here  comes  the  snarl-horn,  brawl-horn,  lewd-horn, 

Followed  by  the  prude-horn,  bleak  and  squeaking:  — 

(Some  of  them  from  Kansas,  some  of  them  from  Kansas.) 

Here  comes  the  hod-horn,  plod-horn,  sod-horn, 

Nevermo  re-to-roam-horn,  loam-horn,  home-horn, 

(Some  of  them  from  Kansas,  some  of  them  from  Kansas.) 

Far  away  the  Rachel-Jane, 

Not  defeated  by  the  horns,  in  a  whisper 

Sings  amid  a  hedge  of  thorns; 

"  Love  and  life, 

Eternal  youth  — 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

Dew  and  glory, 

Love  and  truth, 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet!" 


While  smoke-black  freights  on  the  double-tracked  rail-  J^e?  faster 

road,  and  faster 

Driven  as  though  by  the  foul-fiend's  ox-goad, 
Screaming  to  the  west  coast,  screaming  to  the  east, 
Carry  off  a  harvest,  bring  back  a  feast, 
Harvesting  machinery  and  harness  for  the  beast. 


70  NEW  VOICES 

The  hand-cars  whiz,  and  rattle  on  the  rails; 
The  sunlight  flashes  on  the  tin  dinner-pails. 

And  then> in  an  instai*> 
deliberation        Ye  modern  men, 

Behold  the  procession  once  again! 

Sos?venSping  Listen  to  the  iron  homs>  riPPmg>  racking! 

Listen  to  the  wise-horn,  desperate-to-advise  horn, 
Listen  to  the  fast-horn,  kill-horn,  blast-horn  .  .  . 

£d^S5ft»  Far  a™y  the  Z™hel- Jane, 

a  whisper  Not  defeated  by  the  horns, 

Sings  amid  a  hedge  of  thorns: — 
11  Love  and  life, 
Eternal  youth — 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 
Dew  and  glory, 
Love  and  Truth — 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet!11 
The  mufflers  open  on  a  score  of  cars 
With  wonderful  thunder, 
CRACK,  CRACK,  CRACK, 
CRACK-CRACK,  CRACK-CRACK, 

with  a  snapping  CRACK-CRACK-CRACK,    .... 
explosiveness         T  .  ,  ,,  u  v 

ending  in  lan-      Listen  to  the  gold-horn  .... 

guorous  chant       Old-horn   .... 

Cold-horn  .... 

And  all  of  the  tunes,  till  the  night  comes  down 

On  hay-stack,  and  ant-hill,  and  wind-bitten  town. 


exac 


-JZfySSZa*  Then  far  in  the  west>  as  in  the  beginning, 
whispered  tune    Dim  in  the  distance,  sweet  in  retreating, 
Unes 6  '    Hark  to  the  faint-horn,  quaint-horn,  saint-horn, 

Hark  to  the  calm-horn,  balm-horn,  psalm-horn  . 

begian1ng0n        They  are  hunting  the  goals  that  they  understand; 
sonorously,          San  Francisco  and  the  brown  sea-sand. 

ending  in  a  lan-  -.  T  -,  .      ,  ,      , 

guorous  whisper    My  goal  is  the  mystery  the  beggars  win. 

I  am  caught  in  the  web  the  night-winds  spin. 
The  edge  of  the  wheat-ridge  speaks  to  me; 
I  talk  with  the  leaves  of  the  mulberry  tree. 
And  now  I  hear,  as  I  sit  all  alone 
In  the  dusk,  by  another  big  Santa-Fe  stone, 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  71 

The  souls  of  the  tall  corn  gathering  round, 

And  the  gay  little  souls  of  the  grass  in  the  ground. 

Listen  to  the  tale  the  cotton-wood  tells 

Listen  to  the  wind-mills  singing  o'er  the  wells. 

Listen  to  the  whistling  flutes  without  price 

Of  myriad  prophets  out  of  paradise  .... 

Hearken  to  the  wonder  that  the  night-air  carries. 

Listen  ...  to  ...  the  .  .  .  whisper  ...  as  the  Rachel- 

Of  ...  the  ...  prairie  .  .  .  fairies  J^sToV"1 

Singing  over  the  fairy  plain: 

"Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

Love  and  glory,  stars  and  rain, 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet!" 

Vachel  Lindsay 

COMING  TO  PORT 

Our  motion  on  the  spjt  still  misty  river 
Is  like  rest;  and  like  the  hours  of  doom 
That  rise  and  follow  one  another  ever, 
Ghosts  of  sleeping  battle  cruisers  loom 
And  languish  quickly  in  the  liquid  gloom. 

From  watching  them  your  eyes  in  tears  are  gleaming, 
And  your  heart  is  still;  and  like  a  sound 
In  silence  is  your  stillness  in  the  streaming 
Of  light-whispered  laughter  all  around, 
Where  happy  passengers  are  homeward  bound. 

Their  sunny  journey  is  in  safety  ending, 

But  for  you  no  journey  has  an  end; 

The  tears  that  to  your  eyes  their  light  are  lending 

Shine  in  softness  to  no  waiting  friend; 

Beyond  the  search  of  any  eye  they  tend. 

There  is  no  nest  for  the  unresting  fever 
Of  your  passion,  yearning,  hungry- veined; 
There  is  no  rest  nor  blessedness  forever 
That  can  clasp  you,  quivering  and  pained, 
Whose  eyes  burn  forward  to  the  unattained. 


72  NEW  VOICES 

Like  time,  and  like  the  river's  fateful  flowing, 
Flowing  though  the  ship  has  come  to  rest, 
Your  love  is  passing  through  the  mist  and  going, 
Going  infinitely  from  your  breast, 
Surpassing  time  on  its  immortal  quest. 

The  ship  draws  softly  to  the  place  of  waiting, 

All  flush  forward  with  a  joyful  aim, 

And  while  their  hands  with  happy  hands  are  mating, 

Lips  are  laughing  out  a  happy  name — 

You  pause,  and  pass  among  them  like  a  flame. 

Max  Eastman 


MONOTONE 

The  monotone  of  the  rain  is  beautiful, 
And  the  sudden  rise  and  slow  relapse 
Of  the  long  multitudinous  rain. 

The  sun  on  the  hills  is  beautiful, 
Or  a  captured  sunset,  sea-flung, 
Bannered  with  fire  and  gold. 

A  face  I  know  is  beautiful — 
With  fire  and  gold  of  sky  and  sea, 
And  the  peace  of  long  warm  rain. 

Carl  Sandburg 


THE  BOMBARDMENT 

Slowly,  without  force,  the  rain  drops  into  the  city.  It  stops  a  mo- 
ment on  the  carved  head  of  Saint  John,  then  slides  on  again,  slipping 
and  trickling  over  his  stone  cloak.  It  splashes  from  the  lead  conduit 
of  a  gargoyle,  and  falls  from  it  in  turmoil  on  the  stones  in  the  Cathe- 
dral square.  Where  are  the  people,  and  why  does  the  fretted  steeple 
sweep  about  in  the  sky?  Boom!  The  sound  swings  against  the  rain. 
Boom  again!  After  it,  only  water  rushing  in  the  gutters,  and  the  tur- 
moil from  the  spout  of  the  gargoyle.  Silence.  Ripples  and  mutters. 
Boom! 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM 


73 


The  room  is  damp,  but  warm.  Little  flashes  swarm  about  from  the 
firelight.  The  lustres  of  the  chandelier  are  bright,  and  clusters  of 
rubies  leap  in  the  bohemian  glasses  on  the  gtagdre.  Her  hands  are 
restless,  but  the  white  masses  of  her  hair  are  quite  still.  Boom! 
Will  it  ever  cease  to  torture,  this  iteration!  Boom!  The  vibration  shat- 
ters a  glass  on  the  etag&re.  It  lies  there,  formless  and  glowing,  with  all 
its  crimson  gleams  shot  out  of  pattern,  spilled,  flowing  red,  blood- 
red.  A  thin  bell-note  pricks  through  the  silence.  A  door  creaks.  The 
old  lady  speaks:  "Victor,  clear  away  that  broken  glass."  "Alas! 
Madame,  the  bohemian  glass!"  "Yes,  Victor,  one  hundred  years  ago 
my  father  brought  it — "  Boom!  The  room  shakes,  the  servitor  quakes. 
Another  goblet  shivers  and  breaks.  Boom! 

It  rustles  at  the  window-pane,  the  smooth,  streaming  rain,  and  he  is 
shut  within  its  clash  and  murmur.  Inside  is  his  candle,  his  table,  his 
ink,  his  pen,  and  his  dreams.  He  is  thinking,  and  the  walls  are  pierced 
with  beams  of  sunshine,  slipping  through  young  green.  A  fountain 
tosses  itself  up  at  the  blue  sky,  and  through  the  spattered  water  in  the 
basin  he  can  see  copper  carp,  lazily  floating  among  cold  leaves.  A 
wind-harp  in  a  cedar-tree  grieves  and  whispers,  and  words  blow  into 
his  brain,  bubbled,  iridescent,  shooting  up  like  flowers  of  fire,  higher 
and  higher.  Boom!  The  flame-flowers  snap  on  their  slender  stems. 
The  fountain  rears  up  in  long  broken  spears  of  dishevelled  water  and 
flattens  into  the  earth.  Boom!  And  there  is  only  the  room,  the 
table,  the  candle,  and  the  sliding  rain.  Again,  Boom! — Boom! — 
Boom!  He  stuffs  his  fingers  into  his  ears.  He  sees  corpses,  and  cries 
out  in  fright.  Boom!  It  is  night,  and  they  are  shelling  the  city! 
Boom!  Boom! 

A  child  wakes  and  is  afraid,  and  weeps  in  the  darkness.  What  has 
made  the  bed  shake?  "  Mother,  where  are  you?  I  am  awake."  "Hush, 
my  Darling,  I  am  here."  "But,  Mother,  something  so  queer  hap- 
pened, the  room  shook."  Boom!  "Oh!  What  is  it?  What  is  the 
matter?"  Boom!  "Where  is  Father?  I  am  so  afraid."  Boom!  The 
child  sobs  and  shrieks.  The  house  trembles  and  creaks.  Boom! 

Retorts,  globes,  tubes,  and  phials  lie  shattered.  All  his  trials  oozing 
across  the  floor.  The  life  that  was  his  choosing,  lonely,  urgent,  goaded 
by  a  hope,  all  gone.  A  weary  man  in  a  ruined  laboratory,  that  is  his 
story.  Boom!  Gloom  and  ignorance,  and  the  jig  of  drunken  brutes. 


74  NEW  VOICES 

Diseases  like  snakes  crawling  over  the  earth,  leaving  trails  of  slime. 
Wails  from  people  burying  their  dead.  Through  the  window,  he  can 
see  the  rocking  steeple.  A  ball  of  fire  falls  on  the  lead  of  the  roof,  and 
the  sky  tears  apart  on  a  spike  of  flame.  Up  the  spire,  behind  the  lac- 
ings of  stone,  zigzagging  in  and  out  of  the  carved  tracings,  squirms 
the  fire.  It  spouts  like  yellow  wheat  from  the  gargoyles,  coils  round 
the  head  of  Saint  John,  and  aureoles  him  in  light.  It  leaps  into  the 
night  and  hisses  against  the  rain.  The  Cathedral  is  a  burning  stain 
on  the  white,  wet  night. 

Boom!  The  Cathedral  is  a  torch,  and  the  houses  next  to  it  begin 
to  scorch.  Boom !  The  bohemian  glass  on  the  tiagtre  is  no  longer  there. 
Boom!  A  stalk  of  flame  sways  against  the  red  damask  curtains.  The 
old  lady  cannot  walk.  She  watches  the  creeping  stalk  and  counts. 
Boom ! — Boom ! — Boom ! 

The  poet  rushes  into  the  street,  and  the  rain  wraps  him  in  a  sheet 
of  silver.  But  it  is  threaded  with  gold  and  powdered  with  scarlet 
beads.  The  city  burns.  Quivering,  spearing,  thrusting,  lapping, 
streaming,  run  the  flames.  Over  roofs,  and  walls,  and  shops,  and 
stalls.  Smearing  its  gold  on  the  sky,  the  fire  dances,  lances  itself 
through  the  doors,  ano^  lisps  and  chuckles  along  the  floors. 

The  child  wakes  again  and  screams  at  the  yellow  petalled  flower 
flickering  at  the  window.  The  little  red  lips  of  flame  creep  along  the 
ceiling  beams. 

The  old  man  sits  among  his  broken  experiments  and  looks  at  the 
burning  Cathedral.  Now  the  streets  are  swarming  with  people.  They 
seek  shelter  and  crowd  into  the  cellars.  They  shout  and  call,  and  over 
all,  slowly  and  without  force,  the  rain  drops  into  the  city.  Boom! 
And  the  steeple  crashes  down  among  the  people.  Boom!  Boom, 
again !  The  water  rushes  along  the  gutters.  The  fire  roars  and  mutters. 

Boom!  \ 

Amy  Lowell 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM 

THE  VIRGIN'S  SLUMBER  SONG 

Shoon-a-shoon, 
I  sing  no  psalm 

Little  Man 
Although  I  am 
Out  of  David's 

House  and  Claim. 
Shoon-a-shoon 
I  sing  no  psalm. 

(Hush-a-hoo, 

Blowing  of  pine; 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Lowing  of  kine: 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Though  even  in  sleep, 
His  ear  can  hear 

The  shamrock's  creep.) 

Moons  and  moons 
And  suns  galore, 

Match  their  gold 
On  Slumber's  shore, 
With  your  glittering 

Eyes  that  hold, 
Moons  and  moons 
And  suns  galore. 

(Hush-a-hoo, 

Oceans  of  earth; 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Motions  of  mirth: 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Though  over  all, 
His  ear  can  hear 

The  planets  fall.) 

O'er  and  o'er 
And  under  all, 

Every  star 
Is  now  a  ball, 


76  NEW  VOICES 

For  Your  little 

Hands  that  are 
O'er  and  o'er 
And  under  all. 

(Hush-a-hoo, 

Whirring  of  wings; 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Stirring  of  strings: 
Hush-a-hoo, 

Though  in  slumber  deep, 
His  ear  can  hear 

My  Song  of  Sleep.) 

Francis  Carlin 

SEAL  LULLABY* 

Oh!  hush  thee,  my  baby,  the  night  is  behind  us, 

And  black  aie  the  waters  that  sparkled  so  green. 
The  moon,  o'er  the  combers,  looks  downward  to  find  us 

At  rest  in  the  hollows  that  rustle  between. 
Where  billow  meets  billow,  there  soft  be  thy  pillow; 

Ah,  weary  wee  flipperling,  curl  at  thy  ease! 
The  storm  shall  not  wake  thee,  nor  shark  overtake  thee, 

Asleep  in  the  arms  of  the  slow-swinging  seas. 

Rudyard  Kipling 

THE  LISTENERS 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor; 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head. 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time; 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill 

•Taken  from  "The  Jungle  Book"  by  permission  of  The  Century  Co. 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM 

Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men : 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark  stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry, 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and  lifted  his  head: — 
"Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered, 

That  I  kept  my  word,"  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still  house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Ay,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup, 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone, 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward, 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 

Walter  de  la  Mare 

REMEMBRANCE:  GREEK  FOLK  SONG 

Not  unto  the  forest — not  unto  the  forest,  0  my  lover! 
Why  do  you  lead  me  to  the  forest! 

Joy  is  where  the  temples  are, 

Lines  of  dancers  swinging  far, 

Drums  and  lyres  and  viols  in  the  town — 
It  is  dark  in  the  forest. 

And  the  flapping  leaves  will  blind  me 

And  the  clinging  vines  will  bind  me 

And  the  thorny  rose-boughs  tear  my  saffron  gown — 
And  I  fear  the  forest. 


77 


78  NEW  VOICES 

Not  unto  the  forest — not  unto  the  forest,  O  my  lover! 
There  was  one  once  who  led  me  to  the  forest. 

Hand  in  hand  we  wandered  mute 

Where  was  neither  lyre  nor  flute 

Little  stars  were  bright  above  the  dusk 
(There  was  wind  in  the  forest} 

And  the  thickets  of  wild  rose 

Breathed  across  our  lips  locked  close 

Dizzy  perfumings  of  spikenard  and  of  musk  ... 
/  am  tired  of  the  forest! 

Not  unto  the  forest — not  unto  the  forest,  0  my  lover — 
Take  me  from  the  silence  of  the  forest! 

I  will  love  you  by  the  light 

And  the  throb  of  drums  at  night 

And  the  echoing  of  laughter  in  my  ears, 
But  here  in  the  forest 

I  am  still,  remembering 

A  forgotten,  useless  thing, 

And  my  eyelids  are  locked  down  for  fear  of  tears  .  .  . 
There  is  memory  in  the  forest. 

Margaret  Widdemer 

THE  BACCHANTE  TO  HER  BABE 

Scherzo 

Come,  sprite,  and  dance!  The  sun  is  up, 

The  wind  runs  laughing  down  the  sky 

That  brims  with  morning  like  a  cup. 

Sprite,  we  must  race  him, 

We  must  chase  him — 

You  and  I! 

And  skim  across  the  fuzzy  heather — 

You  and  joy  and  I  together 

Whirling  by! 

You  merry  little  roll  of  fat! — 
Made  warm  to  kiss,  and  smooth  to  pat, 
And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub; 
To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM 

And  breath  you  in  like  breath  of  kine, 

Like  juice  of  vine, 

That  sets  my  morning  heart  a-tingling, 

Dancing,  jingling, 

All  the  glad  abandon  mingling 

Of  wind  and  wine! 

Sprite,  you  are  love,  and  you  are  joy, 

A  happiness,  a  dream,  a  toy, 

A  god  to  laugh  with, 

Love  to  chaff  with, 

The  sun  come  down  in  tangled  gold, 

The  moon  to  kiss,  and  spring  to  hold. 

There  was  a  time  once,  long  ago, 

Long — oh,  long  since  ...  I  scarcely  know. 

Almost  I  had  forgot  .  .  . 

There  was  a  time  when  you  were  not, 

You  merry  sprite,  save  as  a  strain, 

The  strange  dull  pain 

Of  green  buds  swelling 

In  warm,  straight  dwelling 

That  must  burst  to  the  April  rain. 

A  little  heavy  I  was  then, 

And  dull — and  glad  to  rest.    And  when 

The  travail  came 

In  searing  flame  .  .  . 

But,  sprite,  that  was  so  long  ago! — 

A  century! — I  scarcely  know. 

Almost  I  had  forgot 

When  you  were  not. 

So,  little  sprite,  come  dance  with  me! 

The  sun  is  up,  the  wind  is  free! 

Come  now  and  trip  it, 

Romp  and  skip  it, 

Earth  is  young  and  so  are  we. 

Sprite,  you  and  I  will  dance  together 

On  the  heather, 


79 


80  NEW  VOICES 

Glad  with  all  the  procreant  earth, 

With  all  the  fruitage  of  the  trees, 

And  golden  pollen  on  the  breeze, 

With  plants  that  bring  the  grain  to  birth, 

With  beast  and  bird, 

Feathered  and  furred, 

With  youth  and  hope  and  life  and  love, 

And  joy  thereof — 

While  we  are  part  of  all,  we  two — 

For  my  glad  burgeoning  hi  you! 

So,  merry  little  roll  of  fat, 

Made  warm  to  kiss  and  smooth  to  pat 

And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub, 

To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub, 

My  god  to  laugh  with, 

.Love  to  chaff  with, 

Come  and  dance  beneath  the  sky, 

You  and  I! 

Look  out  with  those  round  wondering  eyes, 

And  squirm,  and  gurgle — and  grow  wise! 

Eunice  Tieljens 

THE  MOST-SACRED  MOUNTAIN 

Space,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  of  heaven, 

And  this  sharp  exultation,  like  a  cry,  after  the  slow  six  thousand  feet 

of  climbing! 
This  is  Tai  Shan,  the  beautiful,  the  most  holy. 

Below  my  feet  the  foot-hills  nestle,  brown  with  flecks  of  green;  and 
lower  down  the  flat  brown  plain,  the  floor  of  earth,  stretches 
away  to  blue  infinity. 

Beside  me  in  this  airy  space  the  temple  roofs  cut  their  slow  curves 
against  the  sky, 

And  one  black  bird  circles  above  the  void. 

Space,  and  the  twelve  clean  winds  are  here; 

Aiid  with  them  broods  eternity — a  swift,  white  peace,  a  presence 
manifest. 


ORGANIC  RHYTHM  81 

The  rhythm  ceases  here.    Time  has  no  place. 
This  is  the  end  that  has  no  end. 

Here  when  Confucius  came,  a  half  a  thousand  years  before  the  Naz- 
arene,  he  stepped  with  me,  thus  into  timelessness. 

The  stone  beside  us  waxes  old,  the  carven  stone  that  says :  On  this 
spot  once  Confucius  stood  and  felt  the  smallness  of  the  world  below. 

The  stone  grows  old. 

Eternity 

Is  not  for  stones. 

But  I  shall  go  down  from  this  airy  space,  this  swift  white  peace,  this 

stinging  exultation ; 
And  time  will  close  about  me,  and  my  soul  stir  to  the  rhythm  of  the 

daily  round. 
Yet,  having  known,  life  will  not  press  so  close,  and  always  I  shall  feel 

time  ravel  thin  about  me ; 
For  once  I  stood 
In  the  white  windy  presence  of  eternity. 

Eunice  Tietjens 

SONG  OF  THE  FULL  CATCH 

Here's  good  wind,  here's  sweet  wind, 
Here's  good  wind  and  my  woman  calls  me ! 
Straight  she  stands  there  by  the  pine-tree, 
Faithful  waits  she  by  the  cedar, 
She  will  smile  and  reach  her  hands 
When  she  sees  my  thousand  salmon ! 
Here's  good  wind  and  my  woman  calls  me. 

Here's  clear  water,  here's  swift  water, 
Here's  bright  water  and  my  woman  waits  me ! 
She  will  call  me  from  the  sea's  mouth — 
Sweet  her  pine-bed  when  the  morning 
Lights  my  canoe  and  the  river  ends  ! 
Here's  good  wind,  here's  swift  water, 
Strong  as  love  when  my  woman  calls  me ! 

Constance  Lindsay  Skinner 


82  NEW  VOICES 

LITTLE  THINGS 

There's  nothing  very  beautiful  and  nothing  very  gay 
About  the  rush  of  faces  in  the  town  by  day, 
But  a  light  tan  cow  in  a  pale  green  mead, 
That  is  very  beautiful,  beautiful  indeed.  .  . 
And  the  soft  March  wind,  and  the  low  March  mist 
Are  better  than  kisses  in  the  dark  street  kissed.  .  . 
The  fragrance  of  the  forest  when  it  wakes  at  dawn, 
The  fragrance  of  a  trim  green  village  lawn, 
The  hearing  of  the  murmur  of  the  rain  at  play — 
These  things  are  beautiful,  beautiful  as  day ! 
And  I  shan't  stand  waiting  for  love  or  scorn 
When  the  feast  is  laid  for  a  day  new-born.  .  . 
Oh,  better  let  the  little  things  I  loved  when  little 
Return  when  the  heart  finds  the  great  things  brittle ; 
And  better  is  a  temple  made  of  bark  and  thong 
Than  a  tall  stone  temple  that  may  stand  too  long. 

Orrick  Johns 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS 

Thou  shalt  not  make  to  thyself  any  graven  image. 

Ex.  xx.  4. 

Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  while  the 
evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou  shalt  say,  I 
have  no  pleasure  in  them. 

While  the  sun,  or  the  light,  or  the  moon,  or  the  stars  be  not  dark- 
ened, nor  the  clouds  return  after  the  rain: 

In  the  days  when  the  keepers  of  the  house  shall  tremble,  and  the 
strong  men  shall  bow  themselves,  and  the  grinders  cease  because  they 
are  few,  and  those  that  look  out  of  the  windows  be  darkened. 

And  the  doors  shall  be  shut  in  the  streets,  when  the  sound  of  the 
grinding  is  low,  and  he  shall  rise  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird,  and  all  the 
daughters  of  musick  shall  be  brought  low; 

Also,  when  they  shall  be  afraid  of  that  which  is  high,  and  fears  shall 
be  in  the  way,  and  the  almond  tree  shall  flourish,  and  the  grasshopper 
shall  be  a  burden,  and  desire  shall  fail:  because  man  goeth  to  his  long 
home,  and  the  mourners  go  about  the  streets: 

Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be  loosed,  or  the  golden  bowl  be  broken,  or 
the  pitcher  broken  at  the  fountain,  or  the  wheel  broken  at  the  cistern. 

Then  shall  the  dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was:  and  the  spirit 
shall  return  unto  God  who  gave  it. 

Ecc.  xii.  1-7. 

As  we  all  know,  the  ancient  Hebrews  were  forbidden  by  their 
religion  to  make  graven  images  of  persons  or  animals.  This 
may  have  been  the  first  Puritanical  prohibition  against  the  arts 
of  painting  and  sculpture.  But  unlike  many  of  our  Puritanical 
prohibitions  against  the  arts,  it  may  have  served  a  good  pur- 
pose. The  Hebrews  were  a  small  people,  numerically,  living  in  a 
small  country,  surrounded  by  other  peoples  whose  worship  was 
sensual  and  crude.  Perhaps  they  worshipped  Jahveh  more 
spiritually  and  cleanly  because  they  were  not  permitted  to  make 

83 


84  NEW  VOICES 

an  image  of  Him,  or  of  the  creatures  made  in  His  image.  Per- 
haps that  is  one  reason  why  the  Hebrews  gave  the  world  a 
monotheistic  religion,  a  religion  spiritually  perceived.  We  must 
remember  that  the  ancient  world  had  no  science  comparable 
to  ours,  and  strong  enough  to  strike  a  lance  of  light  through  the 
dark  fabric  of  ignorance  and  superstition,  and  to  shatter  the 
gross,  material  gods  behind  it.  And  for  this  reason,  and  for 
other  reasons,  the  development  of  monotheistic  religion  might 
have  come  much  later  in  history  if  the  ancient  Hebrews  had  been 
allowed  to  make  graven  images  and  worship  them  after  the 
manner  of  other  nations  of  their  time. 

Now  in  all  strong  races  the  desire  to  give  form  and  substance 
to  ideas  and  emotions  is  strong  and  keenly  felt.  The  Hebrews 
were  no  exception  to  this  rule,  and  the  images  which  they  were 
not  allowed  to  make  with  their  fingers  they  made  with  their 
minds  and  gave  to  the  world  in  a  literature  strong  and  clear  and 
beautiful.  The  reader  can  not  find,  I  suppose,  in  all  of  the  litera- 
ture written  or  rewritten  in  our  language,  a  more  excellent  de- 
scription of  old  age  than  that  quoted  from  Ecclesiastes.  It  is  a 
superb  description  because  it  is  a  universal  truth  stated  in  sym- 
bols that  are  absolutely  true  and  appropriate.  The  majesty  of 
these  metaphors  has  given  this  passage  everlasting  life. 

Let  us  take  a  single  verse  of  this  chapter  and  translate  it  into 
plain  prose  statement.  Instead  of  saying  "  In  the  days  when  the 
keepers  of  the  house  shall  tremble,"  let  us  say,  "In  the  days 
when  a  man's  arms  have  grown  weak";  instead  of  "and  the 
strong  men  shall  bow  themselves,"  let  us  say,  "when  the  legs 
are  bent ";  instead  of  "and  the  grinders  shall  cease  because  they 
are  few,"  "when  a  man  is  losing  his  teeth  and  his  ability  to 
masticate";  and  instead  of  "and  those  that  look  out  of  the 
windows  be  darkened,"  "when  a  man  grows  blind."  Having 
done  this  we  find  that  we  have  stated  a  scientific  fact.  But  we 
have  stated  it  quite  unfeelingly.  And  therefore,  when  we  say 
it  in  this  fashion,  we  awaken  no  sense  of  wistfulness,  fear,  tender- 
ness, regret  or  compassion  in  the  reader.  Whereas  the  great 
original,  by  its  transcendent  beauty  and  truth  imaginatively 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  85 

expressed,  reaches  our  minds  and  hearts  and  abides  with  us. 
It  induces  sympathy. 

Images  and  symbols,  then,  are  valuable  in  literature  because 
they  present  truth  far  more  concisely,  vividly,  memorably  and 
emotionally  than  literal  statement. 

The  more  we  think  about  it  the  more  certain  we  become  that) 
the  use  of  images  and  symbols  in  poetry  has  an  importance  that 
is  far  more  than  literary  or  decorative.  It  is  structural.  It 
takes  issue  from  a  poet's  realization  of  life.  The  sense  impres- 
sions which  go  into  the  making  of  a  poet's  images  and  symbols 
are  the  result  of  what  his  nimble  five  wits  have  taught  him. 
True  images  and  symbols  are  not  worked  out  intellectually 
and  tacked  upon  the  surface  of  a  poem  superficially,  as  a  ribbon 
bow  is  tacked  to  a  piece  of  lingerie  in  a  department  store.  Like 
good  rhythms,  good  images  and  symbols  are  the  direct  and 
truthful  record  of  a  poet's  emotions  and  ideas  and  are  capable 
of  giving  the  reader  a  share  in  these  ideas. 

Whenever  images  and  symbols  have  been  devised  by  the  "  sur- 1 
face  intellect"  for  the  superficial  adornment  of  a  work  of  art  and  * 
for  the  love  of  mere  cleverness,  analysis  is  likely  to  reveal  weak- 
ness and  aesthetic  insincerity.    Sometimes  poems  by  very  clever 
moderns  fall  short  of  their  best  effect  simply  because  the  sym- 
bols used  in  them  could  never  have  been  realized  and  profoundly 
felt  and   are,    therefore,   rather  mqre  rjever   than    trjie       Says 

Wallace  Stevens,  in  "  Tattoo" 

"The  light  is  like  a  spider. 

It  crawls  over  the  water. 

It  crawls  over  the  edges  of  the  snow. 

It  crawls  under  your  eyelids 

And  spreads  its  webs  there — 

Its  two  webs." 

Read  casually  that  sounds  well  enough.  But  it  will  not  bear 
analysis.  A  spider  is  a  small,  dark,  rayed  object  moving  in 
darts  and  jerks.  Is  light  a  spider  in  form,  color,  texture,  move- 
ment, power?  Do  spiders  crawl  over  water,  over  the  edges  of 


86  NEW  VOICES 

snow,  under  our  eyelids?  It  sounds  improbable.  To  read  these 
lines  thoughtfully  is  to  be  convinced  that  light  is  not  at  all  like  a 
spider.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  any  interpretation  of  the 
poem  that  would  reveal  truth  in  this  symbol. 

Let  us  compare  it  with  another  little  poem,  by  Carl  Sandburg. 
The  poem  is  called  "Fog"  and  the  new  symbol  used  to  make  us 
feel  a  sense  of  the  fog  is  what  makes  all  the  sum  and  substance 
of  it. 

"The  fog  comes 
on  little  cat  feet. 

It  sits  looking 
over  harbor  and  city 
on  silent  haunches 
and  then  moves  on." 

Evidently  Mr.  Sandburg  wishes  to  give  us  a  sense  of  the 
quietness  that  is  always  in  a  fog.  Nothing  else  but  a  cat  moves 
so  silently  as  a  fog.  The  symbolism  is  daring,  but  it  is  quite 
true  and  has  been  truthfully  felt.  If  we  know  what  a  fog  is  like, 
we  can  feel  it  for  ourselves.  It  is  whimsical,  to  be  sure,  and  these 
lines  have  nothing  more  to  recommend  them  than  the  honesty 
and  suggestive  power  of  this  symbol  or  image.  But  having  that, 
they  justify  themselves. 

All  images  and  symbols  used  in  poetry  can  be  tested  by  the 
reader.  For  a  lover  of  poetry  with  a  sympathetic  imagination 
will  be  able  to  discriminate  between  sincere  craftsmanship  and 
that  which  is  spurious.  He  will  learn  for  himself  why  a  night- 
ingale is  not  a  real  bird  in  the  poem  of  a  man  who  has  never 
heard  one  sing,  but  feels  called  upon  to  maunder  about  a  night- 
ingale's song.  He  will  learn  why  an  English  primrose,  beloved 
of  Wordsworth,  becomes  a  false  flower  in  a  poem  by  an  American 
mimic  who  has  never  seen  one,  who  would  be  wiser  to  write 
about  goldenrod.  He  will  understand  why  it  is  a  heinous 
aesthetic  sin  to  bring  heather  into  a  poem  as  a  rhyme  for  weather, 
when  the  word  is  not  only  irrelevant,  but  only  half  understood 
through  the  literature  of  others.  And  if  he  will  contrast  enough 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  87 

good  poems  with  enough  bad  ones,  the  reader  will  come  to  feel 
that  poets  capable  of  such  artistic  immoralities  are  only  clowns 
wearing  laurel  wreaths  that  they  have  snatched  from  brows  more 
reverend  than  their  own. 

The  poet's  purpose  is  not  utilitarian,  to  be  sure.  He  is  no 
lawyer  making  a  contract.  But  he  must  be  as  loyal  to  his  own 
code  as  the  lawyer  to  the  law.  It  is  his  power  and  privilege  to 
surround  facts  with  beauty,  or  with  such  impressive  qualities 
as  are  relevant  to  those  facts.  But  he  must  serve  as  a  priest 
celebrates  a  sacrament.  His  images  and  symbols  must  be  the 
true  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the  grace  given  him. 

Now  the  poets  in  the  period  immediately  preceding  our  own 
used  images  and  symbols  —  poets  always  have  used  them,  for 
it  is  well  nigh  impossible  to  make  a  readable  poem  without  them 
—  but  they  were  not  content  simply  to  show  the  picture  and  sug- 
gest the  meaning.  At  least,  many  of  them  were  not  content  with 
this.  They  wanted  to  explain  their  own  symbols.  They  wanted 
to  moralize  with  them.  They  poured  a  good  deal  of  water  into 
the  nectar  they  offered  us,  and  sometimes  it  tasted  like  a  thin 
and  feeble  gruel. 

Tn  nijr  timer  however,  tVip  hps|  poets  have  given  emphatic  evi- 
tence  of  the  belief  that  it  is  almost  enough,  if  not  quite  enough,  I 

present  images  and  symbols  adequately  and  let  them  work  I 
?wn  spell.    This  accounts,  in  part,  for  the  brevity  of  much  ' 
of  our  ront^mmryioerrY  and  for  rhp  rnnsnspnpss  nf  it.     ft 


accounts,  in  part^  for  the  beauty  of  it.  But  it  makes  it  necessary 
for  images  and  symbols  to  be,  in  and  of  themselves,  true  and 
valuable  in  relation  to  the  mood  of  the  poem,  since  the  poet  will 
not  explain  them  or  direct  our  attention  to  their  meaning. 

Let  us  read  and  discuss  first  a  few  poems  in  which  mental 
images  are  used  simply  for  the  sake  of  the  picture  they  present 
and  for  the  sense  impressions  which  can  be  shared  with  the 
reader.  And  then  let  us  read  and  discuss  other  poems  in  which 
images  are  used  for  their  value  as  symbols. 

The  poets  who  have  called  themselves  Imagists  are  more 
emphatic  than  any  others  in  affirming  their  belief  in  the  use  of 


88  NEW  VOICES 

images.  They  are  as  emphatic  as  it  is  possible  to  be  and  keep 
sanity.  Briefly  stated,  this  is  their  ideal  of  what  a  poem  should 
be :— an  image,  or  series  of  related  ima.gp.Sj  presented  in  organic 
rhythm  and  suggesting  a  mood.  For  the  simple  and  direct 
lyric  cry,  for  the  philosophical  suggestions  that  show  the  soul 
of  the  folk,  for  the  plain  earth-wisdom  of  simple  men  and  women, 
for  that  proud  and  prescient  sense  of  the  meaning  of  lif e  which 
has  been  the  glory  of  English  poetry  in  the  work  of  many  masters, 
the  Imagists  seem  to  care  very  little.  And  their  best  work  is 
often  done  when  they  forget  to  be  Imagists  and  become  poets. 
But  there  is  a  measure  of  truth  in  their  credo.  And  it  has  value 
as  an  antithetical  remedy  for  the  ills  of  Victorian  diffuseness, 
vagueness  and  sentimentality.  Almost  any  of  the  poems  of 
H.  D.  jj£eadmirable  illustrations  of  Imagism.  The  poem  quoted 
at  theen3 of  this  chapter,  !'£>ea  Oods,"  depends  for  its  effect 
upon  our  ability  to  see  and  smell  and  feel  and  share  intellectually 
what  is  told  in  it. 

"But  we  bring  violets, 
Great  masses,  single,  sweet, 
Wood-violets,  stream-violets, 
Violets  from  a  wet  marsh. 

This  lyric,  and  many  of  the  other  lyrics  by  H.  D.,  Richard 
Aldington,  and  the  other  Imagists,  have  undeniable  beauty, 
for  which  we  should  be  thankful.  But  we  do  not  want  all  poetry 
to  be  of  this  kind.  We  need  a  more  robust  spiritual  food.  We 
can  not  live  on  pictures  of  flowers.  Imagists  should  use  more 
verbs  if  they  would  stir  us  deeply.  On  the  other  hand,  although 
it  is  clear  that,  if  the  tenets  of  Imagism  became  dogmas  for  any 
great  number  of  poets,  we  should  need  a  reaction  against  them 
as  much  as  ever  we  needed  reaction  against  the  minor  Victorians, 
we  should  not  allow  ourselves  to  belittle  their  very  real  achieve- 
ments. Imagisis_.ar.e-.seldom. -guilty  of  trite  phrases  and  dull 
similes.  They  have  brought  new  color  into  poetry  and  new  im- 
pressions of  the  beauty  of  the  external  world. 

Many  critics  have  come  to  believe  that  Amy  Lowell  is  the 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  89 

greatest  of  the  Imagists,  indeed  more  than  an  Imagist.  Cer- 
tainly she  cajMJo-4Ba-Fvelk)Ufr  thingsjwith  images  and  symbols. 
Like  Ahofiab7  son  of  Ahisamech,  she  is  "an  engraver,  and  a 
cunning  workman,  and  an  embroiderer  in  blue,  and  in  purple, 
and  in  scarlet,  and  fine  linen."  Other  poets  must  lay  the  floor 
plans  and  rear  the  props  that  uphold  our  tabernacle  of  poetry; 
others  must  fashion  an  ark  to  keep  sacred  forever  the  covenant 
that  we  make  with  beauty  and  virtue.  Others,  to  speak  more 
briefly,  must  be  our  realists  and  idealists.  Miss, Lowell  is  pri- 
marily a  cunning  workman,  an  artificer  in  brilliant  colors,  an 
engraver  of  fine  designs. 

No  one  can  rightly  evaluate  Miss  Lowell's  work  who  will  not 
accept  the  fact  that  she  is  always  a  conscious  artist.  She  goes 
far  afield,  sometimes,  for  the  materials  of  her  poems.  But  she 
selects  them  with  care.  She  uses  the  lives  of  people  who  live 
on  New  England  farms  to-day,  or  the  lives  of  quaint  swash- 
bucklers who  lived  a  century  ago  and  half  a  world  away.  She 
shows  pictures  of  strange  and  vivid  things  that  she  has  seen  in  a 
wide  and  vivid  world.  She  makes  these  pictures  out  of  the  jux- 
taposition of  odd  trifles  with  scents  and  hues  and  textures  that 
she  likes.  And  inJier  best  work  she  gives  us  frosty  designs Jn 
thought  as  clear  as  glass^  flashing  pattprnfl  of  feeling  a.s  warmly 
colored  as  glossy  skeins  of  embroidery  silk — blue  and  purple 
anof  scarlet,  silver  ancl  gold.  She  distills  sensations  that  sting 
like  fiery  liqueur.  She  threads  together  impressions  as  frail 
as  a  flutter  of  old  lace.  She  is  a  poet  of  vigorous,  penetrative 
and  incessantly  communicative  imagination. 

In  her  "Malmaison"  and  "  1777,"  as  in  all  of  the  poems  in  her 
recent  book,  "Can  Grande's  Castle,"  Miss  Lowell  has  given  us 
clearly  and  copiously  imagined  pictures  from  history.  Here  is  an 
admirable  picture  of  an  English  inn  taken  from  her  poem, 
"Hedge  Island."  It  is  simply  a  series  of  related  images,  but 
we  see  the  picture.  We  have  been  in  that  inn! 

"A  long  oak  corridor.  Then  a  burst  of  sunshine  through 
leaded  windows,  spangling  a  floor,  iris-tinting  rounds  of  beef, 
and  flaked  veal  pies,  and  rose-marbled  hams,  and  great  succu- 


90  NEW  VOICES 

lent  cheeses.  Wine-glasses  take  it  and  break  it,  and  it  quivers 
away  over  the  table-cloth  in  faint  rainbows;  or,  straight  and  sud- 
den, stamps  a  startling  silver  whorl  on  the  polished  side  of  a 
teapot  of  hot  bohea.  A  tortoise-shell  cat  naps  between  red 
geraniums,  and  myrtle  sprigs  tap  the  stuccoed  wall,  gently 
blowing  to  and  fro." 

This  is  the  Imagist  method,  just  the  same  method  used  in  the 
poem  by  H.  D.  from  which  we  quoted.  But  this  poem  is  a 
narrative  and  that  was  a  lyric. 

To  be  sure,  Miss  Lowell's  rampant  imagination  sometimes 
runs  away  with  itself  for  sheer  joy  in  the  clatter  it  can  make  in 
passing.  When  this  happens  she  gives  us  lurid  little  bits  of 
clever  mental  agony  like  "R^dJSliprjers."  Or  perhaps  she  finds 
forms  and  qualities  in  Nature  for  which  Nature  herself  would 
seek  in  vain.  In  a  recent  poem  about  the  war  and  the  sugar- 
beet  industry  she  made  delightful  red  and  yellow  and  globular 
pictures  of  a  vegetable  that  looks  like  a  long,  grayish  turnip. 
But  since  her  imagination  yields  the  real  moonshine  of  poetry 
we  should  be  willing  to  forgive  the  occasional  babble.  For  a 
magical  imagination  Miss  Lowell  assuredly  has. 

The  imagination  that  can  make  magical  use  of  sense  impres- 
sions belongs,  also,  to  D.  H.  Lawrence,  F.  S.  Flint  and  the  others 
already  mentioned,  who  began  their  careers  as  Imagists,  but  are 
growing  individually  with  the  passing  of  time. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  poets  who  are  not  Imagists  write 
poems  that  have  a  beauty  of  the  kind  Imagists  often  seek  in 
vain,  because  they  seek  too  intellectually  and  self-consciously. 
Such  a  poem  is  "  Silver,"  by  Walter  de  la  Mare.  It  is  a  color 
study,  delighting  us  as  a  fine  painting  would.  It  has  the  ad- 
ditional charm  of  a  cool,  liquid  rhythm.  Few  poems  of  our  day 
have  so  great  a  beauty  of  imagery.  For  every  image  is  true. 
Anyone  can  see  the  same  thing  at  the  right  place  and  time. 

"Couched  in  his  kennel,  like  a  log, 

With  paws  of  silver  sleeps  the  dog; 

From  their  shadowy  cote  the  white  breasts  peep 

Of  doves  in  a  silver-feathered  sleep." 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  91 

This  is  all  said  in  magical  words.  Millions  of  men  and  women 
and  children  have  seen  this  silver  symphony  on  moonlit  nights. 
Now  it  is  poetry. 

In  his  "Old  Woman  of  The  Roads"  Padraic  Colum  uses 
images  in  a  lyrical  fashion  of  his  own  to  express  the  homely 
emotions  of  a  poor  and  homeless  old  woman.  They  are  all  true 
images  of  things  that  belong  in  simple  cottages  and  hold  the 
love  of  simple  women  everywhere.  The  "white  and  blue  and 
speckled  store"  of  "shining  delph,"  the  "hearth  and  stool  and 
all,"  the  "clock  with  weights  and  chains,"  the  "pile  of  turf," 
are  all  pictures  of  the  desire  in  the  old  woman's  heart.  They 
come  very  near  to  being  symbols. 

Francis  Carlin's  quatrain,  "The  Cuckoo,"  is  good  imagery, 
deftly  made  of  sound  and  color. 

"A  Sound  but  from  an  Echo  made 
And  a  body  wrought  of  colored  Shade, 
Have  blent  themselves  into  a  bird 
But  seldom  seen  and  scarcely  heard." 

Very  beautiful  poetry  can  be  made  by  the  use  of  images.    But 
a  more  subtle  skill  is  required  of  the  poet  who  would  make  us 
perceive,  through  his  imagery,  something  greater  and  more  im-      /  / 
portant  than  the  images  presented.    And  the  beauty  of  syn>-  /  /•• 
bolism  leads  the  human  spirit  farther  than  the  beauty  of  imagery. ' 
Many  of  the  best  contemporary  poets  have  written  poems  re- 
markable for  beautiful  symbolism,  poems  that  are,  in  reality, 
large,  compound,  and  subtly  amplified  metaphors.    One  of  the 
most  notable  of  these  is  Rupert  Brooke's  "The  Great  Lover." 

It  is  descriptive  of  the  hearty  love  of  lif e,  nothing  more  difficult 
and  complex  than  that.  And  Rupert  Brooke,  who  was  a  very 
keen  and  sentient  poet,  has  ftsed  admirably  chosen  images  of 
familiar  things  to  symbolize'  HIT  theme.  When  he  enumerated 
the  many  things  tharmaoTeTiie  blessed  for  him,  he  was  speaking 
truly,  doubtless,  of  each  one  of  them.  But  he  was  doing  more 
than  that.  In  tliP^mngpst  wpy  in  th**  world,  and  in  a^very 
beautiful  way,  he  was  saying  over  and  over  again  that  he  loved 


92  NEW  VOICES 

life  and  found  it  good.  This  poem  may  well  be  considered  the 
loveliest  thing  he  ever  wrote,  although  patriotism  has  made  his 
sonnets  more  popular.  Here  is  a  short  passage  which  gives  but 
a  taste  of  the  flavor  of  the  whole: 

"These  have  I  loved: 

White  plates  and  cups,  clean-gleaming, 
Ringed  with  blue  lines;  and  feathery,  faery  dust; 
Wet  roofs,  beneath  the  lamp-light;  the  strong  crust 
Of  friendly  bread;  and  many-tasting  food; 
Rainbows;  and  the  blue,  bitter  smoke  of  wood;" 

William  H.  Davies  is  another  English  poet  who  has  written 
poems  remarkable  for  their  beautiful  symbolism.  In  one  famous 
little  lyric  he  makes  the  thunderstorm  the  symbol  of  his  own 
moods.  In  another  poem,  which  is  a  brilliant  narrative  about 
two  women  whose  lives  were  none  too  good,  he  uses  the  bird  of 
paradise — an  amazingly  accurate,  vivid  and  ironical  symbol — 
to  stand  for  something  sacred  which  poor  Nell  Barnes  had  loved 
and  cherished. 

"Not  for  the  world!    Take  care! 

Don't  touch  that  bird  of  paradise, 
Perched  on  the  bed  post  there!" 

A  lesser  artist  might  have  explained  in  detail  just  what  the  bird 
of  paradise  meant  to  poor  Nell.  He  might  have  moralized  about 
the  state  of  her  conscience.  He  might  have  been  sentimental. 
He  might  have  wetted  the  feathers  of  his  own  symbol  with  his 
own  tears  and  washed  out  their  lovely  color.  But  with  fine, 
clean,  sharp  art  Mr.  Davies  does  none  of  these  things.  He  lets 
the  symbol  stand  out  clearly  and  arouses  in  us  a  more  profound 
pity  than  could  ever  have  been  aroused  by  many  stanzas  of 
explanation. 

Still  another  fine  use  of  symbols  is  to  be  found  in  "Frost  To- 
night" by  Edith  M.  Thomas.  The  symbols  themselves  are  old, 
frost  meaning  death,  flowers  meaning  the  harvest  of  life,  but 
they  are  used  with  a  grave  and  sincere  simplicity  which  makes 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  93 

them  the  poet's  own.  For  this  is  quite  enough  to  prevent  the 
possibility  of  a  trite  effect,  and  to  insure  a  sense  of  beautiful 
authenticity. 

Similarly  Adelaide  Crapsey  uses  an  old  symbol,  the  wind, 
meaning  fear  and  sorrow,  but  uses  it  masterfully  in  one  of  her 
little  "Cinquains,"  "  Night  Winds." 

"The  old, 

Old  winds  that  blew 

When  chaos  was,  what  do 

They  tell  the  clattered  trees  that  I 

Should  weep?" 

The  truth  seems  to  be  that  through  all  the  ages  the  same  sym- 
bols have  been  used  again  and  again.  Wherever  men  and 
women  have  been  led  by  life  to  think  and  feel  certain  things  in  a 
certain  way,  they  have  used  certain  symbols  as  the  inevitable  j\ 
way  of  expressing  themselves.  In  hot  countries  everlasting  heat 
is  the  symbol  of  damnation;  in  cold  countries,  everlasting  cold./ 
Again  and  again  the  seasons,  spring,  summer,  autumn  and  winter 
are  made  to  mean  birth,  growth,  maturity,  death.  A  winding 
river  is  life.  The  seed  of  the  man  is  the  child.  The  banner  is  the 
nation.  The  summit  is  success.  The  uphill  climb  is  effort. 
The  tree  is  the  race,  the  family,  the  strong  man. 

The  use  of  the  tree  as  a  symbol  of  the  strong  man  is  par- 
ticularly noticeable  in  poems  about  our  American  strong  man, 
Abraham  Lincoln.  Many  poems  liken  Lincoln  to  a  tree.  John 
Gould  Fletcher  calls  him  a  " gaunt  scraggly  pine."  The  phrase 
is  meaningful.  Edwin  Markham,  writing  with  a  similar  idea 
in  mind,  says: 

"And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  kingly  cedar  green  with  boughs 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky." 

This  is  probably  the  best  of  all  poems  about  Lincoln.  And  it  is 
a  very  fine  study  for  those  interested  in  symbolism.  For  in  it 


94  NEW  VOICES 

the  qualities  of  natural  objects,  rocks,  rain,  and  other  works 
of  external  nature,  are  used  as  symbols  of  spiritual  qualities 
in  the  great  man. 

If  such  symbols  are  old,  as  old  as  the  ages,  how  is  it  that  they 
retain  their  strength  and  freshness?  The  answer  to  that  ques- 
tion is  one  word — Realization.  They  will  seem  trite  and  inef- 
fectual, these  symbols,  or  any  symbols,  if  they  are  used  arti- 
ficially and  insincerely  or  as  the  result  of  feeble,  puerile,  inef- 
fectual realization.  But  when  a  poet  feels  the  force  of  any  sym- 
bol in  relation  to  his  own  mood  and  emotion,  the  symbol  will 
take,  through  the  medium  of  his  personality,  a  new  individuality 
and  authenticity.  To  be  insincere  in  the  world  of  action  is  to  be 
less  than  ethical.  To  be  insincere  in  the  world  of  poetry  is  to  be 
less  than  artistic. 

Just  before  the  war  a  book  was  published  purporting  to  be  a 
book  of  poems  by  founders  of  a  new  school  of  poetry.  It  was 
called  " Spectra"  and  signed  by  collaborators,  Emanuel  Morgan 
and  Anne  Knish.  In  it  were  cleverly  preposterous  verses,  a 
sort  of  symbolic  gibberish,  which  deceived  many  clever  persons, 
—  clever  persons,  mind  —  into  taking  the  book  seriously.  Well 
known  poets  and  well  known  critics  wrote  about  that  book 
and  even  wrote  to  the  authors  of  it,  telling  them  that  the  poor, 
stupid  old  World  would  understand  them  some  day.  But  in- 
sincerity of  conception  and  execution  was  so  patent  in  every 
line  that  one  wonders  how  anyone  could  have  been  deceived. 
Certainly  the  stupid  old  World  was  not  deceived,  although  it 
howled  with  laughter  at  lines  like  the  following: 

"Two  cocktails  around  a  smile, 

A  grape-fruit  after  grace, 
Flowers  in  an  aisle 

.  .  .  Were  your  face!" 

The  stupid  old  World  was  right.  Laughter  was  what  the  authors 
longed  for  and  expected.  "Spectra"  was  simply  an  elaborate 
spoof,  a  book  made  in  ridicule  of  the  insincerities  of  many  of  the 
"saffron  schools."  The  attempt  to  show  by  exaggeration  how 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  95 

absurd  such  literary  insincerities  can  become  was  worth  while. 
It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  the  wise — in  current  opinion — were 
deceived.  The  simple  and  sincere  were  not.  "Spectra"  was 
written  by  two  very  good  poets,  Arthur  Davison  Ficke  and  Wit- 
ter Bynner. 

We  have  often  been  told  that  the  masters  of  symbolism  come 
from  the  Orient.  This  may  be  because  the  making  of  strong 
symbols  is  a  task  for  leisure  and  meditation,  and  the  Orient 
loves  leisure  and  meditation  as  the  Occident  loves  action  and 
thought. 

But  whatever  the  reason  may  be,  it  is  fairly  probable  that  no 
poet  of  our  time  is  a  greater  master  of  symbolism  than  Sir 
Rabindranath  Tagore.  As  has  been  said  in  a  previous  chapter, 
symbolism  is  the  very  structure  and  symmetry  of  design  in  his 
poems  written  in  English.  We  can  pick  up  his  books  and  open 
them  almost  at  random,  to  find  strong,  sure  symbolism  on  any 
page. 

"The  current  in  which  I  drifted  ran  rapid  and  strong  when  I  was 
young.  The  spring  breeze  was  spendthrift  of  itself,  the  trees  were  on 
fire  with  flowers;  and  the  birds  never  slept  from  singing." 

Pages  could  give  no  better  idea  of  youth.  There  he  goes  on  to 
to  say, 

"Now  that  youth  has  ebbed  and  I  am  stranded  on  the  bank,  I 
can  hear  the  deep  music  of  all  things,  and  the  sky  opens  to  me  its 
heart  of  stars." 

Pages  could  give  no  better  idea  of  age  with  its  spiritual  compen- 
sations. 

The  poetry  of  Kahlil  Gibran,  too,  is  almost  entirely  a  poetry 
of  symbolism.  His  poems  are  parables,  not  designs  in  rhyme, 
rhythm  or  imagery,  although  his  rhythms  are  clear  and  pleas- 
ing. In  his  book,  "The  Madman,"  we  have  the  best  parables 
that  can  be  found  in  contemporary  poetry.  And  each  may  be 
interpreted  according  to  the  whimsy  of  the  reader.  "The  Fox" 
is  a  sage  little  parable.  It  may  mean  ambition — illusion— the 
usual  trend  of  human  life — fate — or  what  you  will. 


96  NEW  VOICES 

"A  fox  looked  at  his  shadow  at  sunrise  and  said,  'I  will  have  a 
camel  for  lunch  to-day.'  And  all  morning  he  went  about  looking  for 
camels.  But  at  noon  he  saw  his  shadow  again — and  he  said, '  A  mouse 
will  do.'" 

But  great  poets  of  the  Occident  are  also  masters  of  symbolism. 
One  of  the  most  beautiful  modern  poems  made  out  of  a  symbol 
is  " Cargoes"  by  John  Masefield.  Only  one  symbol  is  used — the 
cargo.  But  in  terms  of  that  symbol,  and  in  three  short  stanzas, 
Mr.  Masefield  describes  commerce  in  three  great  periods  of  the 
world's  history.  And  he  contrives  to  give  us  a  sense  of  the 
world's  growth  in  democracy  without  saying  a  word  about  it. 

The  greatest  piece  of  imagery  and  symbolism  in  contem- 
porary poetry,  however,  may  well  be  "The  Bull "  by  Ralph 
Hodgson.  This  animal  epic  is  warm,  brilliant,  magnificent. 
Each  image  in  the  rich  sequence  of  stanzas  has  its  own  glisten- 
ing pomp.  All,  taken  together,  are  symbols  that  suggest  the 
crescive  power  of  life  and  the  wistf ulness  of  its  waning  into 
darkness. 

CARGOES 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant  Ophir, 
Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Palestine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 
Sandalwood,  cedarwood,  and  sweet,  white  wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coming  from  the  Isthmus, 
Dipping  through  the  Tropics  by  the  palm-green  shores 

With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 

Emeralds,  amethysts, 
Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moidores. 

Dirty  British  coaster  with  a  salt-caked  smoke  stack, 
Butting  through  the  channel  in  the  mad  March  days 

With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 

Road  rails,  pig  lead, 
Firewood,  ironware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 

John  Masefald 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  97 

THE  BULL 

See  an  old  unhappy  bull, 
Sick  in  soul  and  body  both, 
Slouching  in  the  undergrowth 
Of  the  forest  beautiful, 
Banished  from  the  herd  he  led, 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  head. 

Cranes  and  gaudy  parrots  go 

Up  and  down  the  burning  sky; 

Tree-top  cats  purr  drowsily 

In  the  dim-day  green  below; 

And  troops  of  monkeys,  nutting,  some, 

All  disputing,  go  and  come; 

And  things  abominable  sit 
Picking  offal  buck  or  swine, 
On  the  mess  and  over  it 
Burnished  flies  and  beetles  shine, 
And  spiders  big  as  bladders  lie 
Under  hemlocks  ten  foot  high; 

And  a  dotted  serpent  curled 
Round  and  round  and  round  a  tree, 
Yellowing  its  greenery, 
Keeps  a  watch  on  all  the  world, 
All  the  world  and  this  old  bull 
In  the  forest  beautiful. 

Bravely  by  his  fall  he  came: 

One  he  led,  a  bull  of  blood 

Newly  come  to  lustihood, 

Fought  and  put  his  prince  to  shame, 

Snuffed  and  pawed  the  prostrate  head 

Tameless  even  while  it  bled. 

There  they  left  him,  every  one, 
Left  him  there  without  a  lick, 


98  NEW  VOICES 

Left  him  for  the  birds  to  pick, 
Left  him  there  for  carrion, 
Vilely  from  their  bosom  cast 
Wisdom,  worth  and  love  at  last. 


When  the  lion  left  his  lair 

And  roared  his  beauty  through  the  hills, 

And  the  vultures  pecked  their  quills 

And  flew  into  the  middle  air, 

Then  this  prince  no  more  to  reign 

Came  to  life  and  lived  again. 

He  snuffed  the  herd  in  far  retreat, 
He  saw  the  blood  upon  the  ground, 
And  snuffed  the  burning  airs  around 
Still  with  beevish  odours  sweet, 
While  the  blood  rah  down  his  head 
And  his  mouth  ran  slaver  red. 

Pity  him,  this  fallen  chief, 
All  his  splendour,  all  his  strength, 
All  his  body's  breadth  and  length 
Dwindled  down  with  shame  and  grief, 
Half  the  bull  he  was  before, 
Bones  and  leather,  nothing  more. 

See  him  standing  dewlap-deep 
In  the  rushes  at  the  lake, 
Surly,  stupid,  half  asleep, 
Waiting  for  his  heart  to  break 
And  the  birds  to  join  the  flies 
Feasting  at  his  bloodshot  eyes, — 

Standing  with  his  head  hung  down 
In  a  stupor,  dreaming  things: 
Green  savannas,  jungles  brown, 
Battlefields  and  bello wings, 
Bulls  undone  and  lions  dead 
And  vultures  flapping  overhead. 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  99 

Dreaming  things:  of  days  he  spent 
With  his  mother  gaunt  and  lean 
In  the  valley  warm  and  green, 
Full  of  baby  wonderment, 
Blinking  out  of  silly  eyes 
At  a  hundred  mysteries; 

Dreaming  over  once  again 
How  he  wandered  with  a  throng 
Of  bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong, 
Wandered  on  from  plain  to  plain, 
Up  the  hill  and  down  the  dale, 
Always  at  his  mother's  tail; 

How  he  lagged  behind  the  herd, 
Lagged  and  tottered,  weak  of  limb, 
And  she  turned  and  ran  to  him 
Blaring  at  the  loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies, 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Dreaming  maybe  of  a  day 
When  her  drained  and  drying  paps 
Turned  him  to  the  sweets  and  saps, 
Richer  fountains  by  the  way, 
And  she  left  the  bull  she  bore 
And  he  looked  to  her  no  more; 

And  his  little  frame  grew  stout, 
And  his  little  legs  grew  strong, 
And  the  way  was  not  so  long; 
And  his  little  horns  came  out, 
And  he  played  at  butting  trees 
And  boulder-stones  and  tortoises, 

Joined  a  game  of  knobby  skulls 
With  the  youngsters  of  his  year, 
All  the  other  little  bulls, 
Learning  both  to  bruise  and  bear, 


ioo  NEW  VOICES 

Learning  how  to  stand  a  shock 
Like  a  little  bull  of  rock. 

Dreaming  of  a  day  less  dim, 
Dreaming  of  a  time  less  far, 
When  the  faint  b.ut  certain  star 
Of  destiny  burned  clear  for  him, 
And  a  fierce  and  wild  unrest 
Broke  the  quiet  of  his  breast, 

And  the  gristles  of  his  youth 
Hardened  in  his  comely  pow, 
And  he  came  to  fighting  growth, 
Beat  his  bull  and  won  his  cow, 
And  flew  his  tail  and  trampled  off 
Past  the  tallest,  vain  enough, 

And  curved  about  in  splendour  full 
And  curved  again  and  snuffed  the  airs 
As  who  should  say  Come  out  who  dares! 
And  all  beheld  a  bull,  a  Bull, 
And  knew  that  here  was  surely  one 
That  backed  for  no  bull,  fearing  none. 

And  the  leader  of  the  herd 
Looked  and  saw,  and  beat  the  ground, 
And  shook  the  forest  with  his  sound, 
Bellowed  at  the  loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies, 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Dreaming,  this  old  bull  forlorn, 
Surely  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  he  came  to  sultan  power, 
And  they  owned  him  master-horn, 
Chiefest  bull  of  all  among 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong. 

And  in  all  the  tramping  herd 
Not  a  bull  that  barred  his  way, 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  101 

Not  a  cow  that  said  him  nay, 
Not  a  bull  or  cow  that  erred 
In  the  furnace  of  his  look 
Dared  a  second,  worse  rebuke; 

Not  in  all  the  forest  wide, 
Jungle,  thicket,  pasture,  fen, 
Not  another  dared  him  then, 
Dared  him  and  again  defied; 
Not  a  sovereign  buck  or  boar 
Came  a  second  time  for  more. 

Not  a  serpent  that  survived 
Once  the  terrors  of  his  hoof 
Risked  a  second  time  reproof, 
Came  a  second  time  and  lived, 
Not  a  serpent  in  its  skin 
Came  again  for  discipline; 

Not  a  leopard  bright  as  flame, 
Flashing  fingerhooks  of  steel, 
That  a  wooden  tree  might  feel, 
Met  his  fury  once  and  came 
For  a  second  reprimand, 
Not  a  leopard  in  the  land. 

Not  a  lion  of  them  all, 
Not  a  lion  of  the  hills, 
Hero  of  a  thousand  kills, 
Dared  a  second  fight  and  fall, 
Dared  that  ram  terrific  twice, 
Paid  a  second  time  the  price.  .  .  . 

Pity  him,  this  dupe  of  dream, 
Leader  of  the  herd  again 
Only  in  his  daft  old  brain, 
Once  again  the  bull  supreme 
And  bull  enough  to  bear  the  part 
Only  in  his  tameless  heart. 


;.  :;SiJAv4 

102  NEW  VOICES 

Pity  him  that  he  must  wake; 
Even  now  the  swarm  of  flies 
Blackening  his  bloodshot  eyes 
Bursts  and  blusters  round  the  lake, 
Scattered  from  the  feast  half -fed, 
By  great  shadows  overhead. 

And  the  dreamer  turns  away 
From  his  visionary  herds 
And  his  splendid  yesterday, 
Turns  to  meet  the  loathly  birds 
Flocking  round  him  from  the  skies, 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Ralph  Hodgson 

SEA  GODS 

i 

They  say  there  is  no  hope — 
Sand — drift — rocks — rubble  of  the  sea — 
The  broken  hulk  of  a  ship, 
Hung  with  shreds  of  rope, 
Pallid  under  the  cracked  pitch. 

They  say  there  is  no  hope 

To  conjure  you — • 

No  whip  of  the  tongue  to  anger  you — 

No  hate  of  words 

You  must  rise  to  refute. 

They  say  you  are  twisted  by  the  sea, 

You  are  cut  apart 

By  wave-break  upon  wave-break, 

That  you  are  misshapen  by  the  sharp  rocks, 

Broken  by  the  rasp  and  after-rasp. 

That  you  are  cut,  torn,  mangled, 
Torn  by  the  stress  and  beat, 
No  stronger  than  the  strips  of  sand 
Along  your  ragged  beach. 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  103 

H 

But  we  bring  violets, 
Great  masses — single,  sweet, 
Wood- violets,  stream-violets, 
Violets  from  a  wet  marsh. 

Violets  in  clumps  from  hills, 
Tufts  with  earth  at  the  roots, 
Violets  tugged  from  rocks, 
Blue  violets,  moss,  cliff,  river-violets. 

Yellow  violets'  gold, 
Burnt  with  a  rare  tint — 
Violets  like  red  ash 
Among  tufts  of  grass. 

We  bring  deep-purple 

Bird-foot  violets. 

We  bring  the  hyacinth-violet, 

Sweet,  bare,  chill  to  the  touch — 

And  violets  whiter  than  the  in-rush 

Of  your  own  white  surf. 

m 

For  you  will  come, 
You  will  yet  haunt  men  in  ships, 
You  will  trail  across  the  fringe  of  strait 
And  circle  the  jagged  rocks. 

You  will  trail  across  the  rocks 
And  wash  them  with  your  salt, 
You  will  curl  between  sand-hills — 
You  will  thunder  along  the  cliff — 
Break — retreat — get  fresh  strength — 
Gather  and  pour  weight  upon  the  beach. 

You  will  draw  back, 

And  the  ripple  on  the  sand-shelf 

Will  be  witness  of  your  track. 


io4  NEW  VOICES 

O  privet-white,  you  will  paint 

The  lintel  of  wet  sand  with  froth. 

You  will  bring  myrrh-bark 

And  drift  laurel-wood  from  hot  coasts. 

When  you  hurl  high — high — 

We  will  answer  with  a  shout. 

For  you  will  come, 

You  will  come, 

You  will  answer  our  taut  hearts, 

You  will  break  the  lie  of  men's  thoughts, 

And  cherish  and  shelter  us. 

H.  D. 

ARIZONA 

THE  WINDMILLS 

The  windmills,  like  great  sunflowers  of  steel, 
Lift  themselves  proudly  over  the  straggling  houses; 
And  at  their  feet  the  deep  blue-green  alfalfa 
Cuts  the  desert  like  the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

Yellow  melon  flowers 
Crawl  beneath  the  withered  peach-trees; 
A  date-palm  throws  its  heavy  fronds  of  steel 
Against  the  scoured  metallic  sky. 

The  houses,  double-roofed  for  coolness, 

Cower  amid  the  manzanita  scrub. 

A  man  with  jingling  spurs 

Walks  heavily  out  of  a  vine-bowered  doorway, 

Mounts  his  pony,  rides  away. 

The  windmills  stare  at  the  sun. 
The  yellow  earth  cracks  and  blisters. 
Everything  is  still. 

In  the  afternoon 

The  wind  takes  dry  waves  of  heat  and  tosses  them, 
Mingled  with  dust,  up  and  down  the  streets, 
Against  the  belfry  with  its  green  bells: 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  105 

And,  after  sunset,  when  the  sky 

Becomes  a  green  and  orange  fan, 

The  windmills,  like  great  sunflowers  on  dried  stalks, 

Stare  hard  at  the  sun  they  cannot  follow. 

Turning,  turning,  forever  turning 

In  the  chill  night-wind  that  sweeps  over  the  valley, 

With  the  shriek  and  the  clank  of  the  pumps  groaning  beneath  them, 

And  the  choking  gurgle  of  tepid  water. 

John  Gould  Fletcher 

LINCOLN,  THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

When  the  Norn  Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour 
Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 
She  left  the  Heaven  of  Heroes  and  came  down 
To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 
She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  common  road — 
Clay  warm  yet  with  the  genial  heat  of  Earth, 
Dasht  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy; 
Tempered  the  heap  with  thrill  of  human  tears; 
Then  mixt  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff. 
Into  the  shape  she  breathed  a  flame  to  light 
That  tender,  tragic,  ever-changing  face; 
And  laid  on  him  a  sense  of  the  Mystic  Powers, 
Moving — all  husht — behind  the  mortal  vail. 
Here  was  a  man  to  hold  against  the  world, 
A  man  to  match  the  mountains  and  the  sea. 

The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red  earth; 

The  smack  and  tang  of  elemental  things: 

The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  cliff; 

The  good-will  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves; 

The  friendly  welcome  of  the  wayside  well; 

The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea; 

The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn; 

The  pity  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scars; 

The  secrecy  of  streams  that  make  their  way 

Under  the  mountain  to  the  rifted  rock; 

The  tolerance  and  equity  of  light 


io6  NEW  VOICES 

That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  flower 
As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind — 
To  the  grave's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 
That  shoulders  out  the  sky.    Sprung  from  the  West, 
He  drank  the  valorous  youth  of  a  new  world. 
The  strength  of  virgin  forests  braced  his  mind, 
The  hush  of  spacious  prairies  stilled  his  soul. 
His  words  were  oaks  in  acorns;  and  his  thoughts 
Were  roots  that  firmly  gript  the  granite  truth. 

Up  from  log  cabin  to  the  Capitol, 

One  fire  was  on  his  spirit,  one  resolve — 

To  send  the  keen  ax  to  the  root  of  wrong, 

Clearing  a  free  way  for  the  feet  of  God, 

The  eyes  of  conscience  testing  every  stroke, 

To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 

With  the  fine  gesture  of  a  kingly  soul, 

He  built  the  rail-pile  and  he  built  the  State, 

Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every  blow: 

The  grip  that  swung  the  ax  in  Illinois 

Was  on  the  pen  that  set  a  people  free. 

So  came  the  Captain  with  the  mighty  heart; 
And  when  the  judgment  thunders  split  the  house, 
Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  rest, 
He  held  the  ridgepole  up,  and  spikt  again 
The  rafters  of  the  Home.    He  held  his  place — 
Held  the  long  purpose  like  a  growing  tree — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at  praise. 
And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  lordly  cedar,  green  with  boughs, 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky. 

Edwin  Markham 

STANDARDS 

White  is  the  skimming  gull  on  the  sombre  green  of  the  fir-trees, 
Black  is  the  soaring  gull  on  a  snowy  glimmer  of  cloud. 

Charles  Wharton  Stork 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  107 

PANDORA'S  SONG 

Of  wounds  and  sore  defeat 

I  made  my  battle  stay; 

Winged  sandals  for  my  feet 

I  wove  of  my  delay; 

Of  weariness  and  fear, 

I  made  my  shouting  spear; 

Of  loss,  and  doubt,  and  dread, 

And  swift  oncoming  doom 

I  made  a  helmet  for  my  head 

And  a  floating  plume. 

From  the  shutting  mist  of  death, 

And  the  failure  of  the  breath, 

I  made  a  battle-horn  to  blow 

Across  the  vales  of  overthrow. 

O  hearken,  love,  the  battle-horn! 

The  triumph  clear,  the  silver  scorn! 

O  hearken  where  the  echoes  bring, 

Down  the  grey  disastrous  morn, 

Laughter  and  rallying! 

William  Vaughn  Moody 


A  WHITE  IRIS 

Tall  and  clothed  in  samite, 
Chaste  and  pure, 
In  smooth  armor, — 
Your  head  held  high 
In  its  helmet 
Of  silver: 
Jean  D'Arc  riding 
Among  the  sword  blades! 

Has  Spring  for  you 
Wrought  visions, 
As  it  did  for  her 
In  a  garden? 

Pauline  B.  Barrington 


io8  NEW  VOICES 


"FROST  TO-NIGHT" 

Apple-green  west  and  an  orange  bar, 

And  the  crystal  eye  of  a  lone,  one  star  .  .  . 

And,  "  Child,  take  the  shears  and  cut  what  you  will. 

Frost  to-night — so  clear  and  dead-still." 

Then  I  sally  forth,  half  sad,  half  proud, 
And  I  come  to  the  velvet,  imperial  crowd, 
The  wine-red,  the  gold,  the  crimson,  the  pied, — 
The  dahlias  that  reign  by  the  garden-side. 

The  dahlias  I  might  not  touch  till  to-night! 
A  gleam  of  the  shears  in  the  fading  light, 
And  I  gathered  them  all, — the  splendid  throng, 
And  in  one  great  sheaf  I  bore  them  along. 

In  my  garden  of  Life  with  its  all-late  flowers 
I  heed  a  Voice  in  the  shrinking  hours: 
"Frost  to-night — so  clear  and  dead-still  ..." 
Half  sad,  half  proud,  my  arms  I  fill. 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 

SILVER 

Slowly,  silently,  now  the  moon 

Walks  the  night  in  her  silver  shoon; 

This  way,  and  that,  she  peers  and  sees 

Silver  fruit  upon  silver  trees; 

One  by  one  the  casements  catch 

Her  beams  beneath  the  silvery  thatch; 

Couched  in  his  kennel,  like  a  log, 

With  paws  of  silver  sleeps  the  dog; 

From  their  shadowy  cote  the  white  breasts  peep 

Of  doves  in  a  silver-feathered  sleep; 

A  harvest  mouse  goes  scampering  by, 

With  silver  claws,  and  a  silver  eye; 

And  moveless  fish  in  the  water  gleam, 

By  silver  reeds  in  a  silver  stream. 

Walter  de  la  Mare 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS 


109 


FROM  "VARIATIONS" 

VI 

You  are  as  beautiful  as  white  clouds 
Flowing  among  bright  stars  at  night: 
You  are  as  beautiful  as  pale  clouds 
Which  the  moon  sets  alight. 

You  are  as  lovely  as  golden  stars 
Which  white  clouds  try  to  brush  away: 
You  are  as  bright  as  golden  stars 
When  they  come  out  to  play. 

You  are  as  glittering  as  those  stairs 
Of  stone  down  which  the  blue  brooks  run: 
You  are  as  shining  as  sea-waves 
All  hastening  to  the  sun. 

Conrad  Aiken 


AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS 

O,  to  have  a  little  house! 
To  own  the  hearth  and  stool  and  all! 
The  heaped  up  sods  upon  the  fire, 
The  pile  of  turf  against  the  wall! 

To  have  a  clock  with  weights  and  chains 
And  pendulum  swinging  up  and  down! 
A  dresser  filled  with  shining  delph, 
Speckled  and  white  and  blue  and  brown! 

I  could  be  busy  all  the  day 

Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 

And  fixing  on  their  shelf  again 

My  white  and  blue  and  speckled  store! 

I  could  be  quiet  there  at  night 

Beside  the  fire  and  by  myself, 

Sure  of  a  bed  and  loth  to  leave 

The  ticking  clock  and  the  shining  delph! 


no  NEW  VOICES 


Och!  but  I'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark, 

And  roads  where  there's  never  a  house  nor  bush, 

And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road, 

And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush! 

And  I  am  praying  to  God  on  high, 
And  I  am  praying  Him  night  and  day, 
For  a  little  house — a  house  of  my  own — 
Out  of  the  wind's  and  the  ram's  way. 

Padraic  Colum 


THE  DARK  CAVALIER 

I  am  the  Dark  Cavalier;  I  am  the  Last  Lover: 

My  arms  shall  welcome  you  when  other  arms  are  tired; 

I  stand  to  wait  for  you,  patient  in  the  darkness, 
Offering  forgetfulness  of  all  that  you  desired. 

I  ask  no  merriment,  no  pretense  of  gladness, 

I  can  love  heavy  lids  and  lips  without  their  rose; 

Though  you  are  sorrowful  you  will  not  weary  me; 
I  will  not  go  from  you  when  all  the  tired  world  goes. 

I  am  the  Dark  Cavalier;  I  am  the  Last  Lover; 

I  promise  faithfulness  no  other  lips  may  keep; 
Safe  in  my  bridal  place,  comforted  by  darkness, 

You  shall  lie  happily,  smiling  in  your  sleep. 

Margaret  Widdemer 


SAID  A  BLADE  OF  GRASS 

Said  a  blade  of  grass  to  an  autumn  leaf, 

"You  make  such  a  noise  falling!    You  scatter  all  my  winter  dreams." 

Said  the  leaf  indignant,  "Low-born  and  low-dwelling! 

Songless,  peevish  thing!    You  live  not  in  the  upper  air  and  you  can 

not  tell  the  sound  of  singing." 
Then  the  autumn  leaf  lay  down  upon  the  earth  and  slept. 


IMAGES  AND  SYMBOLS  in 

And  when  Spring  came  she  waked  again — and  she  was  a  blade  of  grass. 

And  when  it  was  autumn  and  her  winter  sleep  was  upon  her,  and 
above  her  through  all  the  air  the  leaves  were  falling,  she  mut- 
tered to  herself,  "O  these  autumn  leaves!  They  make  such  a 
noise!  They  scatter  all  my  winter  dreams." 

KahW  Gibran 


SYMBOLS 

I  saw  history  in  a  poet's  song, 
In  a  river  reach  and  a  gallows-hill, 
In  a  bridal  bed,  and  a  secret  wrong, 
In  a  crown  of  thorns:  in  a  daffodil. 

I  imagined  measureless  time  in  a  day, 
And  starry  space  in  a  wagon-road, 
And  the  treasure  of  all  good  harvests  lay 
In  a  single  seed  that  the  sower  sowed. 

My  garden-wind  had  driven  and  havened  again 

All  ships  that  ever  had  gone  to  sea, 

And  I  saw  the  glory  of  all  dead  men 

In  the  shadow  that  went  by  the  side  of  me. 

John  Drinkwater 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 

"The  new  poetry  strives  for  a  concrete  and  immediate  realization  of 
life;  it  would  discard  the  theory,  the  abstraction,  the  remoteness 
found  in  all  classics  not  of  the  first  order.  It  is  less  vague,  less  verbose, 
less  eloquent,  than  most  poetry  of  the  Victorian  period  and  much 
work  of  earlier  periods.  It  has  set  before  itself  an  ideal_of_  absolute 
simplicity  and  sincerity — an  ideal  which  implies  an  individual,  un- 
stereo typed  diction;  and  an  individual,  unstereo typed  rriythinT^ 

Harriet  Monroe  in  The  New  Poetry 

The  spirit  of  a  poem  may  derive  from  any  man  and  may  belong 
to  all  mankind.  But  only  a  poet  can  give  this  spirit  a  body 
woven  of  rhythmical  words.  When  the  spirit  of  the  poem  has 
been  clothed  with  this  body,  it  becomes  vocal,  and  that  is  the 
poet's  achievement. 

Therefore,  to  any  poet  who  holds  his  vocation  in  honor,  words 
are  sacred.  Practical  men  and  women  may  use  them  chiefly  for 
utility's  sake,  to  make  contracts,  buy  and  sell,  get  food  and  give 
orders.  Others  use  them  humorously  to  make  a  kind  of  vivid 
and  exaggerated  fun  which  we  call  slang,  which  is  sometimes  akin 
to  poetry — rather  like  poetry  without  any  sense  of  proportion. 
But  the  poet  must  use  words  to  make  truth  and  beauty  com- 
municable. He  must  use  them  to  share  life  bountifully  and 
richly.  Therefore  he  must  have  a  sense  of  the  sacredness  of 
words.  And  it  is  worth  while  to  remember  that  St.  John,  The 
Beloved,  who  was  no  mean  poet,  used  "The  Word"  as  the  sym- 
bol of  the  Son  of  Man,  who  was  to  him  also  the  Son  of  God. 

A  good  poet  must  know  words  as  other  men  and  women 

seldom  know  them.    He  must  know  them  as  others  know  people. 

He  must  know  that,  like  people,  words  do  not  always  agree  with 

\  one  another  and  live  in  harmony  when  placed  near  together.    In 

fact  they  have  their  own  preferred  association^.    Therefore  he 

112 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       113 

must  be  a  wise  host,  inviting  such  words  to  visit  him  together 
as  will  take  pleasure  in  each  other's  society.    He  must  know 
words  in  families,  as  we  know  our  neighbors,  understanding 
their  relationships  well  so  that  he  may  be  able  to  treat  them 
tactfully.    He  must  know  their  meanings — the  minds  that  are  in 
words.    He  must  know  their  moods  and  the  emotions  that  they 
excite — the  hearts  of  words.    And  he  must  know  and  understand  ' 
their  sounds,  long  and  short,  rough  and  smooth,  soft  and  re-  | 
sistant,  bright  and  sombre — the  beauty  of  words. 

This  is  very  important.  For  a  loud,  noisy  word  in  a  bit  of 
quiet  blank  verse,  will  sometimes  create  such  a  disturbance  that 
the  beauty  of  the  other  words  will  pass  unnoticed.  It  is  like  the 
entrance  of  a  vulgar,  ostentatious,  self-made  millionaire  into  a 
roomful  of  nuns  or  Quaker  ladies.  Or  a  prim,  sedate  little  word 
introduced  into  a  riotous  lyric  may  seem  to  be  as  ill  at  ease  as 
a  staid  New  England  dame  at  a  marriage  feast  in  Hawaii,  where 
native  drinks  are  drunk  and  native  dances  danced  with  abandon. 

To  any  poet  worthy  the  name,  words  are  alive,  and  must  be 
treated  with  the  reverence  due  all  living  things.  And  perhaps 
the  poets  of  to-day  deserve  more  credit  for  their  return  to  this 
ancient  reverence  for  words,  than  they  deserve  for  anything 
else.  If  there  be  any  one  way  in  which  poetry  has  improved 
in  the  past  ten  years,  it  is  in  the  matter  of  the  judicious  use  of 
words.  In  the  best  poetry  of  recent  years  we  have  what  Miss 
Monroe  calls  "an  individual,  unstereotyped  diction,"  due  to 
the  poets'  ideal  of  simplicity  and  sincerity. 

William  Butler  Yeats  (for  whose  poems  and  plays  may  Ire- 
land be  praised  and  blessed!)  has  been  a  strong  influence  for 
good  in  this  matter  of  diction.  It  is  now  twenty  years  since  he 
began  preaching  his  gospel  of  the  use  of  the  words  of  the  best 
contemporary  speech  in  poetry.  And  nearly  all  of  the  best 
poets  of  our  day  have  accepted  this  credo  and  live  by  its  articles. 
John  Masefield,  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  and  the  other  Georgians 
in  England,  Louis  Untermeyer,  Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  Witter 
Bynner,  and  indeed  all  of  the  leading  poets  in  this  country( 
seem  to  have  agreed  that  the  language  which  is  good  enough  foj 


ii4  NEW  VOICES 

labor  and  love  and  marriage,  for  birth  and  death  and  the  friendly 
breaking  of  bread,  is  good  enough,  if  used  with  discrimination, 
for  the  making  of  poetry.  And  this  accounts,  in  part,  for  the 
recent  growth  of  popular  interest  in  poetry.  Our  poets  are  not 
using  a  pedantic,  unfriendly,  top-lof tical  jargon,  but  the  language 
of  the  common  life.  Their  meanings  do  not  have  to  be  de- 
ciphered. They  can  be  felt. 

Because  they  believe  in  the  use  of  the  words  of  the  best  con- 
temporary speech  hi  poetry,  poets  of  to-day  are  unwilling  to  use 
many  of  the  archaic  forms  of  English  words.  They  seldom  use 
the  old-fashioned  pronouns  "thou"  and  "ye"  and  the  verbal 
forms  that  end  in  "st"  for  the  second  person  singular  and  in 
"  th"  for  the  third  person  singular.  These  forms  were  once  used 
in  daily  speech.  In  those  days  poets  could  use  them  naturally 
and  effectively  in  verse  because  they  could  feel  them.  But  all 
too  often,  when  modern  poets  have  said  "thou"  in  their  verse, 
they  have  really  felt  "you"  and  translated  it  into  "thou," 
because  they  have  been  taught  that  "thou"  is  in  some  inexplic- 
able way  more  poetic.  This  is  why  recent  poetry  in  which  the 
old  forms  are  too  frequently  used  seems  stilted,  unnatural  and 
remote  from  life.  No  modern  man  could  stand  before  his  sweet- 
heart and  address  her  as  "O  thou"  without  feeling  a  little  bit 
ridiculous.  That  is  why  the  "O  thou"  poems  and  the  "hath- 
doth"  poems  (to  quote  my  friends,  the  editors)  seem  ridiculous 
to  contemporary  critics. 

Most  of  the  modem  lyrics  in  which  such  archaic  forms  occur 
could  be  improved  by  the  substitution  of  modern  forms.  At  the 
risk  of  being  impertinent,  even  presumptuous,  I  am  going  to 
quote  a  poem  by  Dana  Burnet  (who  has  written  much  better 
and  more  vigorous  verse),  and,  after  quoting  it,  I  am  going  to 
translate  it  into  modern  English.  Here  it  is  as  he  wrote  it. 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       115 


PAPER  ROSES* 

"How  earnest  thou  by  thy  roses,  Child?" 

"I  toiled  at  them  in  a  little  room." 
"Thy  window  flaming  with  the  dawn?" 

"Nay,  master;  'twas  in  fearful  gloom." 

"What  gave  thy  rose  its  color,  then?" 
"My  cheek's  blood,  as  I  bent  my  head." 

"Thy  cheek  is  cold  and  lifeless,  Child." 
"Mayhap  it  was  my  heart  that  bled." 

"One  white  rose  in  thy  basket,  Child?" 
"Aye,  master,  that's  to  crown  the  whole." 

"  What  is  it,  then,  O  Little  Child?" 
"Mayhap  .  .  .  mayhap  it  is  my  soul!" 

To  be  sure,  this  is  an  imaginary  dialogue,  a  spiritual  rather 
than  an  actual  conversation.  And  this  fact  may  be  used  as  an 
argument  for  the  archaic  language  in  it.  But  after  much  thought 
we  come  to  believe  that  such  spiritual  dialogues  have  a  more 
poignant  appeal  if  they  are  written  in  simple,  unobtrusive  lan- 
guage. Moreover,  this  is  a  modern  theme — child  labor  in  great 
cities — and  demands  a  modern  treatment.  Rewritten  in  modern 
English  the  poem  is  stronger.  Here  is  what  may  be  called  a 
free  translation: 

"Where  did  you  get  your  roses,  Child?" 

"I  made  them  in  a  little  room." 
"Your  window  flaming  with  the  dawn?" 

"No,  sir;  in  fearful  gloom." 

"What  gave  your  roses  color,  then?" 
"My  heart's  blood,  as  I  bent  my  head." 

"Your  cheek  is  cold  and  lifeless,  Child?" 
"  Perhaps  my  heart  bled." 

*  Copyright,  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


u6  NEW  VOICES 

"One  white  rose  in  your  basket,  Child?" 
"Yes,  sir;  it  is  to  crown  the  whole." 

"What  is  it,  then,  O  little  Child?" 
"I  think  it  is  my  soul." 

The  real  danger  in  depending  upon  the  use  of  archaic  forms  is 
that  we  may  come  to  believe  that  there  is  peculiar  merit  in  them 
and  use  them  to  get  a  conventionally  poetic  effect  in  lines  that 
could  not  lay  claim  to  being  poetry  by  any  other  ruling.  A  com- 
parison of  two  American  poems  by  the  same  poet,  will  show  how 
this  sometimes  happens.  The  poems  are  "  Unconquered "  and 
"Song"  by  Florence  Earle  Coates.  The  first  poem  is  made  out 
of  a  fine  thought  and  feeling —  a  spiritual  bravery.  But  it  be- 
gins with  these  lines: 

"Deem  not,  O  Pain,  that  thou  shalt  vanquish  me 

Who  know  each  treacherous  pang,  each  last  device, 
Whereby  thou  barrest  the  way  to  Paradise!" 

The  second  poem,  also,  is  made  out  of  a  fine  mood  and  a  feeling 
of  the  greatness  of  human  love.    How  much  better  it  is! 

"If  love  were  but  a  little  thing — 

Strange  love,  which,  more  than  all,  is  great — 

One  might  not  such  devotion  bring, 
Early  to  serve  and  late. 

If  love  were  but  a  passing  breath — 
Wild  love — which,  as  God  knows,  is  sweet — 

One  might  not  make  of  life  and  death 
A  pillow  for  love's  feet." 

No  one,  in  facing  physical  or  spiritual  agony,  would  be  likely, 
nowadays,  to  say  to  himself,  "Deem  not,  O  Pain,  that  thou  shalt 
vanquish  me."  But  in  thinking  of  the  greatness  and  beauty  of 
love  anyone  might  rejoice  to  repeat  the  words  of  "Song."  The 
first  poem  is  stilted  and  artificial.  The  second  is  natural  and 
lovely. 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       117 

For  every  rule  that  critics  make  a  few  exceptions  must  be 
found.  And  it  seems  wise,  sometimes,  to  set  aside  the  modern 
prejudice  against  the  old  verbal  and  pronominal  forms.  Of 
course  we  must  still  say  "thou"  in  devotional  poetry  if  we  wish 
to  induce  a  feeling  of  worship,  for  the  use  of  "thou"  in  address- 
ing Deity  is  still  a  part  of  our  folk  speech.  In  churches  people 
still  say  "thou"  and  they  feel  "thou."  That  is  why  Bliss  Car- 
man's beautiful  religious  lyric,  "Lord  of  My  Heart's  Elation," 
would  lose  much  of  its  grace  and  strength  if  "  thou  "  were  changed 
to  "you"  in  it.  The  first  stanza  reads: 

"Lord  of  my  heart's  elation, 
Spirit  of  things  unseen, 
Be  thou  my  aspiration 
Consuming  and  serene!" 

No  one  with  any  sense  of  aesthetic  values  would  wish  to  sub- 
stitute the  modern  pronoun  here. 

For  a  somewhat  less  obvious  reason  one  would  not  wish  to 
change  "thou"  to  "you"  in  Constance  Lindsay  Skinner's  poems 
of  Indian  life.  The  life  of  the  American  Indian  is  a  tragic  re- 
cessional. He  is  being  thrust  back  into  the  past.  Almost  he 
seems  to  belong  to  the  past.  And  when  we  think  of  his  life  and 
customs  and  folklore,  we  are  thinking  back  into  simpler  and 
more  naive  periods  of  history.  Therefore,  for  the  sake  of  that 
naivete,  that  primitive  feeling  sometimes  gained  through  the 
judicious  use  of  old  forms,  Miss  Skinner  is  justified. 

The  gist  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  neither  "thou"  nor  any 
other  word  should  be  used  in  poetry  for  conventional  reasons  or 
because  it  is  supposed  to  be  especially  "literary."  Any  word 
strong  enough  to  serve  its  purpose  and  convey  meaning  is 
poetic  if  used  in  the  right  place,  in  true  and  strong  relation  with 
other  words,  and  as  a  result  of  the  poet's  sincere  realization  of 
the  thing  which  he  describes.  The  trouble  is  that  unskilled 
poets  sometimes  use  these  antique  forms  because  they  suppose 
that,  being  antique,  they  have,  in  and  of  themselves,  all  the 
virtues  of  antiquity.  Or  else  they  use  them  inconsistently, 


u8  NEW  VOICES 

mixed  in  with  modern  words  and  forms,  to  facilitate  rhyming, 
or  because  they  need  extra  syllables  for  their  mechanically 
contrived  meters.  Poets  who  are  not  skillful  enough  to  over- 
come the  minor  difficulties  of  rhyming  and  regular  meter  with- 
out recourse  to  ineffectual  and  false  diction  should  be  ashamed 
to  show  their  clumsiness  and  to  ply  the  great  trade  of  Seanchan 
slothfully.  To  use  "seemeth"  in  one  line  and  "seems"  in  the 
next,  "doth  walk"  in  one  line  and  "walks"  in  the  next,  is 
shoddy  art.  Such  expressions  are  not  variably  used  in  good 
conversation.  Poetry  is  the  best  conversation. 

Perhaps  just  a  word  or  two  should  be  said  about  "poetic 
license,"  since  many  people  have  strange  ideas  about  the  liber- 
ties it  permits  poets.  The  first  thing  to  be  said  is  that  it  is 
mercifully  obsolescent  and  that  the  sooner  we  forget  it,  the  bet- 
ter. No  good  poet  of  to-day  wants  a  license  for  any  unfair  deal- 
ing with  words.  No  good  poet  wants  license  for  any  unfair 
dealing  with  meaning  or  rhythm  or  image.  No  good  poet  wants 
license  to  create  any  poetry  which  is  less  honest,  craftsmanlike 
and  beautiful  than  the  most  beautiful  prose.  Distortions  of  sen- 
tence structure,  limp  adjectives  slipping  downhill  at  the  end  of 
the  line  after  their  nouns,  all  ugly  and  awkward  inversions  and 
substitutions,  are  things  that  good  contemporary  poets  despise. 
In  an  article  written  for  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  Eunice  Tiet- 
jens  states  the  case  against  "poetic  license "  very  well.  What  she 
says  should  be  quoted  with  emphasis. 

"If  the  modern  poet  gives  himself  greater  liberty  in  the  verse  forms 
he  uses — though  even  there  he  has  only  discarded  one  set  of  rules  for 
another  set  quite  as  binding  if  not  quite  so  easily  denned — yet  on  the 
other  hand  he  no  longer  permits  himself  to  lay  ruthless  hands  upon 
the  language.  The  'poetic'  words  which  once  besprinkled  the  pages 
of  even  the  best  poets  are  now  laid  aside,  we  hope  forever,  along  with 
other  outworn  garments  of  an  earlier  civilization.  Here  again  it  is 
to  be  stated  with  certainty  that  the  verse  writer  of  to-day  is  not 
worthy  of  consideration  who  thinks  himself  licensed  to  use  such 
words  as  'e'en,'  'twixt,'  "mongst,'  'e'er,'  and  the  rest  of  that  ilk, 
or  who  resorts  to  such  subterfuges  as  'do  swoon'  and  'did  come.'" 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       119 

A  few  years  ago  the  conventions  of  poetic  language  were  held 
to  be  as  unchanging  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  In 
those  days  "azure"  was  considered  a  poetic  word,  "blue"  a 
prosaic  word,  "beauteous"  and  "bounteous"  were  poetic 
words,  "beautiful"  and  "bountiful"  were  prosaic  words, 
"zephyr"  was  poetic,  "breeze,"  prosaic.  The  modern  poet 
favors  the  use  of  the  words  that  used  to  be  considered  prosaic, 
for  he  finds  that  they  are  a  part  of  our  speech  and  therefore  a 
part  of  our  life.  But  he  feels  free,  of  course,  to  use  any  word 
as  occasion  demands.  His  only  dogma  is  that  there  must  be 
some  sufficient  reason  of  meaning  or  euphony  which  makes  one 
word  better  than  another. 

Contemporary  poetry,  like  great  poetry  of  any  period,  owes 
much  of  its  warmth  and  humanity  to  this  freedom  in  the  use  of 
words.  Time  was  when  minor  Victorians  would  have  told  us 
that  such  words  as  "greasy"  and  "pot"  could  never  be  made 
poetic  and  should  never  be  used  in  a  lyric.  But  Shakespeare, 
in  a  lyric  that  has  lived  for  many  generations  as  an  admirable 
piece  of  picturing  combined  with  genuine  emotion,  used  both  oj 
these  words,  in  one  line,  in  a  repeated  refrain! 

11  While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot." 

If  a  modern  innovator  had  written  this  poem  with  all  its 
sharp  beauty  of  homely  picture,  conservative  critics  would 
have  made  life  miserable  for  him.  They  would  have  said,  "  That 
is  not  poetry."  But  it  is  perfect  poetry  of  its  kind.  Every 
word  in  it  is  related  to  the  meaning  and  mood  of  the  whole. 
It  is  a  sharing  of  life  in  vivid  and  unforgettable  language.  Shake- 
speare needed  no  rules.  We  need  make  none  for  him. 

Contemporary  poets  permit  themselves  a  large  amount  of 
freedom  in  their  selection  of  words  for  poems,  but  they  have  a 
prejudice  against  a  few  words,  and  especially  against  a  few 
tired  adjectives  that  seem  to  have  lost  interest  in  life.  Such  ad- 
jectives as  "vernal"  and  "supernal"  are  seldom  used  by  our 
poets  because  they  fail  to  make  a  quick  and  strong  appeal  to  the 
modern  mind.  When  we  hear  "heavenly  or  "lofty,"  most  of 


120  NEW  VOICES 

us  can  make  a  mental  picture  of  the  meaning.  When  we  say 
"spring,"  or  "youthful,"  the  same  thing  is  true.  But  "super- 
nal" and  "vernal"  bring  no  clear-cut  conception.  The  life 
seems  to  have  vanished  out  of  them.  And  the  good  poet  of  to- 
day smiles  when  he  remembers  how  they  served  to  make  life 
easy  for  the  Post- Victorian  minor  pcet  who  had  left  the  ad- 
jective "eternal"  all  alone  at  the  end  of  a  line  of  verse  and 
needed  a  rhyme  for  it. 

Ten  years  ago  the  same  poets  who  loved  to  rhyme  "vernal" 
and  "supernal"  and  "eternal"  and  "diurnal"  had  forgotten 
that  words,  for  the  poet,  must  be  the  fruit  of  realization.  They 
filled  their  verses  with  words  and  phrases  considered  quite 
appropriate  simply  because  they  were  customarily  used  and 
had  become  formulae.  They  invented  what  might  be  called  the 
rubber  stamp  method  of  writing  poetry!  But  it  was  not  poetry 
that  they  wrote. 

To-day  nothing  wearies  readers  of  poetry  more  than  a  trite 
and  stereotyped  diction.  The  public  has  learned  that  such 
diction  is  the  result  of  laziness  or  mental  sterility.  Lilies 
are  stately  and  violets  modest  yesterday,  to-day  and  forever, 
truly.  But  lilies  and  violets  have  other  qualities,  also.  And 
the  poet  of  to-day  knows  that,  in  speaking  of  "the  stately 
lily"  or  the  "modest  violet,"  he  causes  no  animation  in  the 
modern  mind,  strikes  no  spark  of  emotion,  shares  no  sense 
of  lif e.  Therefore,  when  we  find  such  phrases  in  modern  verse, 
we  may  be  sure  that  the  maker  of  the  poem  is  rendering  a 
mere  lip-service,  for  hire  or  for  vanity,  that  he  is  not  rendering 
the  strong  and  sincere  soul-and-body  service  of  the  poet.  For 
not  until  all  poets  and  all  readers  have  in  mind  the  clean,  hard 
honesty  of  words  to  the  extent  that  each  word  must  tally  with 
experience,  will  these  old  phrases,  once  vitally  and  beautifully 
used,  regain  their  value  for  occasional  use  in  the  mouths  of  the 
poets  and  of  the  people. 

The  use  of  4£itejphrases,  oddly  enough,  is  the  besetting  sin 
of  academic  poetTand  oi  other  learned  persons  who  read  verses 
at  meetings  of  scholarly  societies.  Humble  persons  who  hear 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       12 1 

such  verse  read,  or  find  it  shamelessly  exposed  to  view  in  the 
pages  of  parlor-table  magazines,  are  troubled,  saying  to  them- 
selves, "It  must  be  good  poetry,  for  he  is  a  very  great  man.  If  I 
knew  enough  I  should  like  it."  May  Apollo  speed  the  day  when 
these  humble  persons  will  know  for  themselves  that  such  metrical 
mimicries  of  a  noble  past  are  not  poetry  at  all !  Nor  is  poetry 
good  because  a  great  man  has  written  it.  It  must  be  written  by 
a  great  poet.  A  man  may  be  a  great  philosopher,  politician, 
teacher,  novelist,  historian,  financier,  and  quite  incapable  of 
writing  a  single  line  of  poetry.  This  should  not  have  to  be  said. 

While  we  wait  for  the  millennium  of  the  poets,  which  will  be  a 
rather  jolly  millennium  when  it  comes,  the  evil  goes  on.  At  a 
meeting  of  very  learned  men  in  a  very  great  city,  and  not  very 
long  ago,  a  piece  of  academic  verse  was  read  in  which  the 
following  expressions  were  used:  "mystery  strange"  (why  not 
"strange  mystery"?),  "high  supernal  fiat"  (note  the  tau- 
tology!), "red  passion  growths,"  "stately  lily"  (of  course!), 
"purple  mists,"  "lust  of  power,"  "love  of  gain,"  "balm  of 
kindly  counsel,"  "endless  aeons,"  "unseen,  incredible,  yet 
true,"  "memoried  moods,"  "supine  ease,"  "vibrant  air,"  "won- 
drous past,"  "further  parley,"  "verdure  to  the  desert,"  "perilous 
peaks,"  "ardour  of  the  soul,"  "pomp  and  pageant  of  the  fall," 
"pitiful  earth-ken,"  "vision  far  but  fair,"  "thrills  with  pur- 
pose," "rainbow  promises,"  and  "heathen  hearts."  Why  is  it, 
by  the  way,  that  nobody  ever  mentions  anything  else  about 
the  heathen?  Have  they  no  eyes,  ears,  foreheads  or  feet? 

The  ghosts  of  the  elder  singers  who  were  strong  enough  for 
realization  and  sincere  expression  might  well  haunt  this  man. 
But  nothing  happened  to  him  when  the  poem  was  read.  No  one 
haled  him  to  jail  for  his  abuse  of  the  language  and  his  offer  of 
counterfeit  for  the  true  coin  of  poetry.  No  one  even  demanded 
a  bond  of  him  to  write  no  more  verse.  And  yet,  although  he 
may  be  a  good  citizen  and  a  good  husband  and  father,  he  was, 
when  he  read  that  poem,  a  menace  to  American  culture. 

The  diction  of  the  poets  who  have  styled  themselves  Imagists 
deserves  especial  attention,  for  theoretically  they  are  arch- 


122  NEW  VOICES 

enemies  of  the  trite  phrase.  And  they  are  seldom  guilty  of  the 
use  of  formulas.  This  may  be  because  the  poets  of  this  minor 
school  are  exceedingly  intellectual  poets  and  believe  in  making 
conscious  use  of  sense  impressions.  Very  often  an  Imagist 
poem  is  nothing  but  an  exercise  in  imagining  the  pleasure  to  be 
had  from  certain  textures,  colors,  sounds,  sights,  tastes  and  move- 
ments. The  Imagists  endeavor  to  be  true  to  their  "  doctrine 
of  the  image"  and  use  no  abstractions,  no  vague  suggestions. 
They  present  things  in  hard,  concrete  words.  And,  coming  as 
they  have,  after  a  period  of  windy  eloquence,  bombastic  piety, 
and  flatulent  sentimentality  in  poetry,  they  have  done  much 
to  enable  contemporary  poets  of  all  schools  to  focus  their  atten- 
tion on  the  matter  of  diction. 

Sometimes  they  have  carried  theory  too  far.  They  have 
been  protestants  and  aesthetic  reformers  from  the  first,  and 
over-emphasis  on  the  new  creed  is  always  a  part  of  reform. 
When  the  Imagists  began  to  write  they  were,  as  a  group,  too 
fond  of  such  lovely  color-words  as  " chrome,"  " saffron"  and 
the  like.  Such  color-words  became  a  mannerism.  One  poet, 
not  an  Imagist  himself,  was  so  much  influenced  by  the  theory 
and  practice  of  the  school,  apparently,  that  he  could  write 
of  the  "mauve"  wounds  of  Christ.  He  wished  to  create  a 
sense  impression  for  his  readers  and  paid  no  heed  to  the  as- 
sociations with  department  stores  and  dressmakers  which  might 
have  prevented  a  great  poet  from  using  the  word  " mauve" 
in  this  connection.  It  is  not  fair,  however,  to  blame  Imagists 
for  the  faults  of  their  followers.  To-day  the  diction  of  each 
Imagist  should  be  considered  individually,  if  a  fair  estimate  of 
values  is  to  be  made,  for  as  these  poets  progress,  their  ways 
diverge. 

In  criticizing  the  diction  of  contemporary  poetry,  or  of  any 
poetry,  we  must  always  keep  in  mind  the  type  of  poetry  we  are 
reading.  Diction  which  would  be  strong  and  true  in  narrative 
or  dramatic  poetry  might  be  ill-suited  to  the  needs  of  the  makers 
of  lyrics.  In  a  narrative  poem,  or  in  a  dramatic  poem,  char- 
acters must  be  differentiated,  and  this  requires  of  a  poet  a  skill 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       123 

in  catching  the  flavors  of  the  speech  of  the  people  he  is  describ- 
ing. Not  only  must  the  diction  of  the  whole  poem  be  true  to 
the  spirit  of  the  whole  poem,  but  it  must  also  be  true,  in  each 
individual  case,  to  the  character  of  the  speaker  on  whose  lips 
it  is  found.  And  furthermore,  it  must  be  true  to  the  locality 
in  which  the  events  take  place,  or  to  the  racial  consciousness 
behind  them.  And  in  long  poems  the  words  used  must  con- 
tribute to  the  variety  of  design  without  which  they  become 
monotonous. 

The  diction  of  "The  Everlasting  Mercy"  by  John  Masefield 
fulfills  all  of  these  requirements.  When  the  poem  was  first 
published  in  this  country,  its  very  strength,  its  chiaroscuro  of 
rough  ugliness  and  serene  beauty,  aroused  critics  who  were  fast 
becoming  accustomed  to  mild-mannered  and  innocuous  verse, 
and  there  was  not  a  little  discussion  of  the  words  in  it.  The 
famous  and  ugly  passage  which  describes  the  beginning  of  the 
quarrel  between  Bill  and  Saul  seemed  to  many  persons  to  be 
superfluous  and  coarse.  But  to-day  most  of  us  have  accepted 
it  as  an  essential  ugliness  in  a  great  poem  full  of  spiritual  beauty, 
for  it  shows  very  clearly,  vividly  and  concisely  just  the  class  and 
kind  of  men  who  are  quarreling  together.  It  shows  their  racial 
quality  as  lower  class  Britishers  and  it  sharpens  our  interest 
in  what  is  to  follow. 

If  it  had  been  smoothly  and  prettily  said,  the  value  of  the 
poem  would  have  been  destroyed.  But  such  lines  and  such  ex- 
pressions would  have  no  proper  place  in  a  short  lyric  of  the 
subjective  kind.  We  have  only  to  read  them  to  realize  this. 

"'It's  mine.' 
'It  ain't!' 
'You  put/ 

'You  liar.' 
'You  closhy  put.' 
*You  bloody  liar.' 
'This  is  my  field.' 
'This  is  my  wire.' 
'I'm  ruler  here.' 


124  NEW  VOICES 

'You  ain't/ 

'I  am.' 

Til  fight  you  for  it.' 

'Right,  by  damn/" 

We  could  never  tolerate  many  lines  like  these  even  in  a  long 
narrative  poem.  And  one  of  the  delights  in  reading  "The  Ever- 
lasting Mercy"  is  a  delight  in  the  freshness  and  variety  of  the 
words  used  from  page  to  page.  Another  passage  quite  as  true 
racially,  and  quite  as  true  to  the  character  of  Saul  in  one  of  his 
nobler  moods,  is  the  passage  that  describes  the  love  of  running 
light-foot  and  swift  along  a  country  road  at  night. 

"The  men  who  don't  know  to  the  root 
The  joy  of  being  swift  of  foot 
Have  never  known  divine  and  fresh 
The  glory  of  the  gift  of  flesh, 
Nor  felt  the  feet  exult,  nor  gone 
Along  a  dim  road,  on  and  on, 
Knowing  again  the  bursting  glows, 
The  mating  hare  in  April  knows, 
Who  tingles  to  the  pads  with  mirth 
At  being  the  swiftest  thing  on  earth." 

This  passage  is  hi  keeping  with  that  great  passage  from  Brown- 
ing's "Saul"  that  begins  "How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere 
Irving. " 

Just  as  good  in  its  own  way  is  the  diction  of  the  passage  that 
tells  how  Saul  amused  little  Jimmy  Jaggard  with  fairy  tales 
about  Tom-cats  and  mouse-meat.  And,  in  the  end,  the  poem's 
language  reaches  into  a  beauty  that  means  the  redemption  of 
the  sinner.  The  racial  quality  is  not  lost.  The  man's  class  and 
character  are  not  lost.  But  he  is  fulfilled  in  his  own  kind.  All 
the  words  that  are  used  show  the  fulfillment.  It  is  the  homely 
salvation  of  the  humble. 

"All  earthly  things  that  blessed  morning 
Were  everlasting  joy  and  warning. 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       125 

The  gate  was  Jesus'  way  made  plain, 
The  mole  was  Satan  foiled  again, 
Black  blinded  Satan  snouting  way 
Along  the  red  of  Adam's  clay; 
The  mist  was  error  and  damnation, 
The  lane  the  road  unto  salvation. 
Out  of  the  mist  into  the  light, 
O  blessed  gift  of  inner  sight. 
The  past  was  faded  like  a  dream; 
There  came  the  jingling  of  a  team, 
A  ploughman's  voice,  a  clink  of  chain, 
Slow  hoofs,  and  harness  under  strain. 
Up  the  slow  slope  a  team  came  bowing, 
Old  Callow  at  his  autumn  ploughing, 
Old  Callow,  stooped  above  the  hales, 
Ploughing  the  stubble  into  wales. 
His  grave  eyes  looking  straight  ahead, 
Shearing  a  long  straight  furrow  red; 
His  plough-foot  high  to  give  it  earth 
To  bring  new  food  for  men  to  birth. 
O  wet  red  swathe  of  earth  laid  bare, 
O  truth,  O  strength,  O  gleaming  share, 
O  patient  eyes  that  watch  the  goal, 
O  ploughman  of  the  sinner's  soul. 
O  Jesus,  drive  the  coulter  deep 
To  plough  my  living  man  from  sleep." 

The  wisdom  used  in  choosing  these  words,  the  utter  naturalness 
of  them,  is  something  that  is  too  good  to  be  conspicuous  and 
will  be  discovered  only  by  those  who  read  the  poem  more  than 
once  and  think  about  it  quietly.  One  line  alone  for  truth  and 
vitality  would  make  this  passage  memorable, — 

"Up  the  slow  slope  a  team  came  bowing." 

Who  that  has  ever  seen  ploughing  will  deny  the  truth  of  these 
words?  Almost  equally  good  are  the  lines, 

"His  grave  eyes  looking  straight  ahead, 
Shearing  a  long  straight  furrow  red; 
His  plough-foot  high  to  give  it  earth." 


126  NEW  VOICES 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  speak  of  the  grave,  strong  symbolism 
of  many  parts  of  this  passage,  for  that  is  something  that  any 
reader  will  feel. 

Another  narrative  poem  in  which  the  use  of  words  can  be 
studied  to  good  advantage  is  "  Hoops,"  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gib- 
son. Mr.  Gibson's  work  differs  from  Mr.  Masefield's  in  that  he 
does  not  attempt  to  use  just  the  words  that  his  characters  would 
have  spoken.  He  uses  the  words  that  their  souls  might  have 
spoken  if  their  lips  had  learned  them.  For  that  reason  his  dic- 
tion, beautiful  and  austere  though  it  is,  at  times  seems  to  take 
his  characters  far  away  from  us  as  real,  living  men  and  women, 
capable  of  reserves  and  intimacies,  and  leave  them  with  us  only 
as  spirits  speaking  through  Mr.  Gibson.  In  " Hoops,"  for  ex- 
ample, we  find  a  circus  clown  and  a  tender  of  camels  talking  to- 
gether on  the  ground  near  the  entrance  of  the  circus  tent.  The 
clown  is  Merry  Andrew.  The  tender  of  camels  is  Gentleman 
John.  What  they  say  to  each  other  has  genuine  importance  as 
the  speech  of  two  souls  revealing  themselves.  In  it  is  wisdom, 
a  sense  of  values  in  life,  a  sense  of  beauty  and  of  ugliness,  and  of 
the  characters  shown  in  beasts  and  persons.  But  all  of  these 
things  belong  to  Mr.  Gibson,  the  poet,  and  are  felt  as  belong- 
ing to  him.  They  may  belong  to  the  souls  of  Merry  Andrew 
and  Gentleman  John,  but  they  do  not  belong  on  their  lips  in  the 
words  that  Mr.  Gibson  has  chosen.  Says  Gentleman  John: 

"And  then  consider  camels:  only  think 

Of  camels  long  enough,  and  you'ld  go  mad — 

With  all  their  humps  and  lumps;  their  knobbly  knees, 

Splay  feet  and  straddle  legs;  their  sagging  necks, 

Flat  flanks  and  scraggy  tails,  and  monstrous  teeth." 

That  is  an  admirable  description  of  a  camel,  somewhat  too  ad- 
mirable, perhaps,  for  the  mouth  of  Gentleman  John,  a  little  too 
clever  with  its  play  of  double  consonants  and  short  "a"  sounds 
from  line  to  line,  even  though  Mr.  Gibson  does  tell  us  later — 
perhaps  to  explain  Gentleman  John's  gift  of  words — that  Gentle- 
man John  wanted  to  be  a  poet.  Still  more  admirable  as  Mr. 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       127 

Gibson's  own  description,  still  more  improbable  as  Gentleman 
John's  description,  are  the  lines  about  the  elephant. 

"The  elephant  is  quite  a  comely  brute, 
Compared  with  Satan  camel, — trunk  and  all, 
His  floppy  ears  and  his  inconsequent  tail. 
He's  stolid,  but  at  least  a  gentleman. 
It  doesn't  hurt  my  pride  to  valet  him, 
And  bring  his  shaving-water.    He's  a  lord. 
Only  the  bluest  blood  that  has  come  down 
Through  generations  from  the  mastodon 
Could  carry  off  that  tail  with  dignity, 
That  tail  and  trunk.    He  cannot  look  absurd, 
For  all  the  monkey  tricks  you  put  him  through, 
Your  paper  hoops  and  popguns.    He  just  makes 
His  masters  look  ridiculous,  when  his  pomp's 
Butchered  to  make  a  bumpkin's  holiday." 

As  an  example  of  good  diction  to  which  locality  as  well  as 
character  contributes  flavor  and  quality,  nothing  can  be  better 
than  the  diction  of  Robert  Frost.  Mr.  Frost  is  not  merely  a 
new  craftsman,  he  is  a  new  personal  force  deep-rooted  in  local- 
ity. He  belongs  somewhere — in  rural  New  England.  And  from 
that  physical  and  spiritual  environment  he  draws  his  strength. 
We  can  hardly  call  his  characters  fictitious.  For  they  are  real. 
We  know  that  they,  or  their  ghosts  are  all  there,  "North  of 
Boston"  still.  Poems  like  "Blueberries"  are  fragrant  with  the 
scent  of  the  New  England  countryside  and  full  of  the  dry,  de- 
licious humor  of  the  thrifty,  quiet,  kindly  Yankee  farmer.  "A 
Hundred  Collars"  is  one  of  the  most  delightfully  ironical  poems 
in  the  whole  of  American  literature.  In  it  the  New  England 
small  town  drunkard,  who  happens  to  be  an  agent  for  a  country 
newspaper,  and  the  New  England  schoolmaster,  who  has  out- 
grown his  own  home  town,  are  obliged  to  share  a  room  in  a 
country  hotel.  The  exquisite  tact  and  kindliness  of  the  drunk- 
ard, who  wears  collars  of  the  size  eighteen,  and  the  awkward 
dislike,  distrust,  and  discomfiture  of  the  man  of  the  world  are 
shown  in  inimi table  fashion.  In  "The  Code:  Heroics"  we  learn 


128  NEW  VOICES 

the  silent  pride  of  the  New  England  "hired  man"  and  his 
Yankee  audacity  in  defending  that  pride.  And  in  many  and 
many  a  poem  we  have  heart-breaking  stories  of  lonely  women 
on  the  farms  who  are  servants  to  hired  men  as  well  as  to  their 
families.  To  get  the  best  out  of  these  narratives  they  must 
be  read  as  a  whole,  as  we  would  read  the  story  of  New  England. 
In  each  of  them  the  diction  is  the  diction  of  the  people  described. 
Mr.  Frost  has  been  absolutely  true  to  the  characters  as  in- 
dividuals and  to  the  spiritual  atmosphere  of  the  locality.  And 
he  has  not  allowed  any  showy  eccentricities  to  mar  his  style.  No 
doubt  many  persons  would  prefer  to  have  more  catchwords  and 
a  peculiar  jargon  instead  of  the  plain  familiar  English  which  his 
'  characters  use.  But  Mr.  Frost  does  not  put  dialect  in  the  mouths 
of  these  people,  because  he  does  not  hear  them  use  it. 

Even  Mr.  Frost's  abbreviations  are  true  to  contemporary 
speech  and  to  character.  He  does  not  use  the  old-fashioned 
"o'er,"  "twixt"  and  "'tis"  of  the  conventional  versifier.  But 
he  does  use  the  common  modern  abbreviations/ "doesn't," 
"isn't,"  "I'd"  and  the  like.  He  is  quite  unmindful  of  literary 
conventionalities  and  very  faithful  to  reality.  And  in  spite  of 
the  plainness  of  the  speech  he  uses — or  because  of  it — his 
characters  are  intensely  alive  with  passions  that  even  reserves 
and  humor  can  not  hide. 
Vachel  Lindsay  is  another  poet  who  shares  life  with  us  in 

X  every  word.  He  puts  it  in  the  turn  of  every  sentence.  His 
phrases  growl  and  flirt,  smirk  and  glare,  point  fingers  and  make 
faces,  sputter  and  fizzle  and  splash  color  broadly  upon  the  uni- 
verse. We  come  to  realize  gradually  that  he  is  a  man  with  the 
imagination  and  sensitivity  of  the  bards  of  Greece  and  the 
prophets  of  Israel,  living  in  an  immense  modern  world,  where 
life  is  multiform  and  multi-colored,  graver  and  more  humorous, 
more  complex  and  more  varied  than  ever  it  was  in  the  days 
of  the  ancient  Greeks  or  Hebrews.  And  we  realize,  also,  that 
he  has  lived  in  that  state  of  social  and  spiritual  consciousness 
which  we  call  the  United  States  of  America. 

In  this  fact  we  find  one  reason  for  his  vitality  as  a  poet.    He 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       129 

is  deeply  rooted  in  our  civilization.  Our  folklore,  our  customs, 
our  ethics,  our  idealism  and  our  reasons  for  laughter  are  well 
known  to  him.  The  time  that  he  spent  upon  the  open  highways 
of  our  country,  preaching  his  gospel  of  beauty, — "Bad  public 
taste  is  mob  law — good  public  taste  is  democracy" — that  time 
was  also  a  time  of  learning.  In  those  days  our  people  gave  him 
many  secrets.  Perhaps  they  taught  him  not  to  scorn  the  simple 
and  homely  virtues  which  they  value.  Perhaps  they  helped 
not  a  little  to  make  him  what  he  has  certainly  become,  the 
spiritual  descendent  of  Mark  Twain  and  James  Whitcomb 
Riley,  as  American  as  Riley's  pumpkins  or  the  whitewash  on 
Tom  Sawyer's  fence. 

But  his  artistic  heritage  comes  to  him  from  long,  long  ago, 
from  the  troubadours  and  bards  and  minnesingers  and  min- 
strels, from  the  makers  of  sagas  and  runes.  To  sum  it  all  up, 
he  is  something  that  has  never  been  before — an  American 
minstrel. 

In  "General  William  Booth  Enters  Into  Heaven"  we  have  a 
poem  which  is  a  masterpiece  of  powerful  phraseology  set  to  the 
tune  of  "The  Blood  of  The  Lamb."  In  this  hotly  human  poem 
we  are  permitted  to  watch  the  transfiguration  of  Booth's  "ver- 
min-eaten saints  with  mouldy  breath"  when  they  are  led  into 
the  courts  of  Heaven  to  the  beating  of  Booth's  drum.  In  the 
light  of  the  beatific  vision  of  King  Jesus  they  become 

"Sages  and  sybils  now  and  athletes  clean, 
Rulers  of  empires  and  of  forests  green!" 

The  finest  workmanship,  however,  in  the  making  of  this  poem, 
is  in  the  description  of  the  forlorn  army  before  the  transfigura- 
tion. 

In  his  greatest  poem,  "The  Chinese  Nightingale,"  all  the 
strong,  quaint,  original  qualities  that  have  won  fame  for  Vachel 
Lindsay  are  to  be  found  at  their  best.  Gracious  rhythms,  deli- 
cious imaginings  and  exquisite  phraseology  all  belong  to  this 
fantasy  in  a  Chinese  laundry. 


130  NEW  VOICES 

"Then  this  did  the  noble  lady  say: 

1  Bird,  do  you  dream  of  our  home-coming  day 

When  you  flew  like  a  courier  on  before 

From  the  dragon-peak  to  our  palace-door, 

And  we  drove  the  steed  in  your  singing  path — 

The  ramping  dragon  of  laughter  and  wrath: 

And  found  our  city  all  aglow, 

And  knighted  this  joss  that  decked  it  so? 

There  were  golden  fishes  in  the  purple  river 

And  silver  fishes  and  rainbow  fishes. 

There  were  golden  junks  in  the  laughing  river 

And  silver  junks  and  rainbow  junks: 

There  were  golden  lilies  by  the  bay  and  river, 

And  silver  lilies  and  tiger-lilies, 

And  tinkling  wind-bells  in  the  gardens  of  the  town 

By  the  black-lacquer  gate 

Where  walked  in  state 

The  kind  king  Chang 

And  his  sweetheart  mate  .  .  .  '" 

In  the  making  of  the  short,  subjective  lyric  the  words  should 
be  simple,  fluent,  melodious,  such  words  as  can  be  sung  easily. 
Words  like  those  that  contributed  to  the  force  and  vividness  of 
long  narratives  like  "The  Everlasting  Mercy"  and  "Hoops" — 
such  words  as  "closhy,"  "snouting,"  "knobbly,"  "straddle," 
"humps,"  "popguns,"  "bumpkin"  and  the  like,  are  seldom 
appropriate  in  lyrics!  They  would  be  quite  out  of  place  in  such 
songs  as  Sara  Teasdale  gives  us,  or  even  in  her  supple  and  mag- 
netic blank  verse.  Nor  do  we  find  any  words  of  this  kind  in  her 
work.  Her  diction,  like  her  meaning  and  emotion,  is  limpid 
and  simple.  As  an  example,  let  us  read  five  lines  from  her 
"Sappho." 

"There  is  a  quiet  at  the  heart  of  love, 

And  I  have  pierced  the  pain  and  come  to  peace. 

I  hold  my  peace,  my  Cle'is,  on  my  heart; 

And  softer  than  a  little  wild  bird's  wing 

Are  kisses  that  she  pours  upon  my  mouth." 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       131 

These  lines  are  perfect  in  chaste  and  fluent  beauty.  But  we 
should  realize  that  a  very  long  poem  of  the  dramatic  or  narrative 
type  would  lack  variety  and  cloy  upon  us  if  made  wholly  of  lines 
like  these. 

We  must  demand  of  all  poets,  then,  that  their  diction  be  in 
harmony  with  the  spirit  of  their  creation.  Poems  that  blaze 
with  the  soul  of  an  individual,  or  of  mankind,  take  to  them- 
selves, in  the  labor  of  great  poets,  a  flesh  of  words  of  one  kind 
with  the  spirit  that  flashes  through  it.  In  poetry,  as  in  life,  let 
the  fool  wear  his  motley,  let  Caliban  be  known  in  the  coarse 
body  of  Caliban,  let  the  Madonna  wear  her  white  beauty  and 
her  mantle  of  blue. 

HER  WORDS 

My  mother  has  the  prettiest  tricks 

Of  words  and  words  and  words. 
Her  talk  comes  out  as  smooth  and  sleek 

As  breasts  of  singing  birds. 

She  shapes  her  speech  all  silver  fine 

Because,  she  loves  it  so. 
And  her  own  eyes  begin  to  shine 

To  hear  her  stories  grow. 

And  if  she  goes  to  make  a  call 

Or  out  to  take  a  walk 
We  leave  our  work  when  she  returns 

And  run  to  hear  her  talk. 

We  had  not  dreamed  these  things  were  so 

Of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Her  speech  is  as  a  thousand  eyes 

Through  which  we  see  the  earth. 

God  wove  a  web  of  loveliness, 

Of  clouds  and  stars  and  birds, 
But  made  not  any  thing  at  all 

So  beautiful  as  words. 


I32  NEW  VOICES 

They  shine  around  our  simple  earth 

With  golden  shadowings, 
And  every  common  thing  they  touch 

Is  exquisite  with  wings. 

There's  nothing  poor  and  nothing  small 

But  is  made  fair  with  them. 
They  are  the  hands  of  living  faith 

That  touch  the  garment's  hem. 

They  are  as  fair  as  bloom  or  air, 

They  shine  like  any  star, 
And  I  am  rich  who  learned  from  her 

How  beautiful  they  are. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch. 

THE  SONG  OF  WANDERING  AENGUS 

I  went  out  to  the  hazel  wood 

Because  a  fire  was  in  my  head, 

And  cut  and  peeled  a  hazel  wand, 

And  hooked  a  berry  to  a  thread; 

And  when  white  moths  were  on  the  wing, 

And  moth-like  stars  were  flickering  out, 

I  dropped  the  berry  in  a  stream, 

And  caught  a  little  silver  trout. 

When  I  had  laid  it  on  the  floor, 
I  went  to  blow  the  fire  a-flame, 
But  something  rustled  on  the  floor, 
And  some  one  called  me  by  my  name: 
It  had  become  a  glimmering  girl, 
With  apple-blossom  in  her  hair, 
Who  called  me  by  my  name  and  ran 
And  faded  through  the  brightening  air. 

Though  I  am  old  with  wandering 
Through  hollow  lands  and  hilly  lands, 
I  will  find  out  where  she  has  gone, 
And  kiss  her  lips  and  take  her  hands; 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       133 

And  walk  among  long  dappled  grass, 
And  pluck  till  time  and  times  are  done 
The  silver  apples  of  the  moon, 
The  golden  apples  of  the  sun. 

William  Butler  Yeats 


GRIEVE  NOT  FOR  BEAUTY 

Grieve  not  for  the  invisible,  transported  brow 

On  which  like  leaves  the  dark  hair  grew, 

Nor  for  the  lips  of  laughter  that  are  now 

Laughing  inaudibly  in  sun  and  dew, 

Nor  for  those  limbs  that,  fallen  low 

And  seeming  faint  and  slow, 

Shall  yet  pursue 

More  ways  of  swiftness  than  the  swallow  dips 

Among  .  .  .  and  find  more  winds  than  ever  blew 

The  straining  sails  of  unimpeded  ships! 

Mourn  not! — yield  only  happy  tears 

To  deeper  beauty  than  appears! 

Witter  Bynner 

OLD  AGE 

Old  Age,  the  irrigator, 

Digs  our  bosoms  straighter, 

More  workable  and  deeper  still 

To  turn  the  ever-running  mill 

Of  nights  and  days.    He  makes  a  trough 

To  dram,  our  passions  off, 

That  used  so  beautiful  to  lie 

Variegated  to  the  sky, 

On  waste  moorlands  of  the  heart — 

Haunts  of  idleness,  and  art 

Still  half-dreaming.    All  their  piedness, 

Rank  and  wild  and  shallow  wideness, 

Desultory  splendors,  he 

Straightens  conscientiously 

To  a  practicable  sluice 

Meant  for  workaday,  plain  use. 


I34  NEW  VOICES 

All  the  mists  of  early  dawn, 
Twilit  marshes,  being  gone 
With  their  glamor,  and  their  stench, 
There  is  left — a  narrow  trench. 

Percy  Mackaye 

THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD 

The  snow  had  fallen  many  nights  and  days; 

The  sky  was  come  upon  the  earth  at  last, 

Sifting  thinly  down  as  endlessly 

As  though  within  the  system  of  blind  planets 

Something  had  been  forgot  or  overdriven. 

The  dawn  now  seemed  neglected  in  the  grey 

Where  mountains  were  unbuilt  and  shadowless  trees 

Rootlessly  paused  or  hung  upon  the  air. 

There  was  no  wind,  but  now  and  then  a  sigh 

Crossed  that  dry  falling  dust  and  rifted  it 

Through  crevices  of  slate  and  door  and  casement. 

Perhaps  the  new  moon's  time  was  even  past. 

Outside,  the  first  white  twilights  were  too  void 

Until  a  sheep  called  once,  as  to  a  lamb, 

And  tenderness  crept  everywhere  from  it; 

But  now  the  flock  must  have  strayed  far  away. 

The  lights  across  the  valley  must  be  veiled, 

The  smoke  lost  in  the  greyness  or  the  dusk. 

For  more  than  three  days  now  the  snow  had  thatched 

That  cow-house  roof  where  it  had  ever  melted 

With  yellow  stains  from  the  beasts'  breath  inside; 

But  yet  a  dog  howled  there,  though  not  quite  lately. 

Someone  passed  down  the  valley  swift  and  singing, 

Yes,  with  locks  spreaded  like  a  son  of  morning; 

But  if  he  seemed  too  tall  to  be  a  man 

It  was  that  men  had  been  so  long  unseen, 

Or  shapes  loom  larger  through  a  moving  snow. 

And  he  was  gone  and  food  had  not  been  given  him. 

When  snow  slid  from  an  overweighted  leaf, 

Shaking  the  tree,  it  might  have  been  a  bird 

Slipping  in  sleep  or  shelter,  whirring  wings; 

Yet  never  bird  fell  out,  save  once  a  dead  one — 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       135 

And  in  two  days  the  snow  had  covered  it. 

The  dog  had  howled  again — or  thus  it  seemed 

Until  a  lean  fox  passed  and  cried  no  more. 

All  was  so  safe  indoors  where  life  went  on 

Glad  of  the  close  enfolding  snow — O  glad 

To  be  so  safe  and  secret  at  its  heart, 

Watching  the  strangeness  of  familiar  things. 

They  knew  not  what  dim  hours  went  on,  went  by, 

For  while  they  slept  the  clock  stopt  newly  wound 

As  the  cold  hardened.    Once  they  watched  the  road, 

Thinking  to  be  remembered.    Once  they  doubted 

If  they  had  kept  the  sequence  of  the  days, 

Because  they  heard  not  any  sound  of  bells. 

A  butterfly,  that  hid  until  the  Spring 

Under  a  ceiling's  shadow,  dropt,  was  dead. 

The  coldness  seemed  more  nigh,  the  coldness  deepened 

As  a  sound  deepens  into  silences; 

It  was  of  earth  and  came  not  by  the  air; 

The  earth  was  cooling  and  drew  down  the  sky. 

The  air  was  crumbling.    There  was  no  more  sky. 

Rails  of  a  broken  bed  charred  in  the  grate, 

And  when  he  touched  the  bars  he  thought  the  sting 

Came  from  their  heat — he  could  not  feel  such  cold  .  .  . 

She  said  "O,  do  not  sleep, 

Heart,  heart  of  mine,  keep  near  me.    No,  no;  sleep. 

I  will  not  lift  his  fallen,  quiet  eyelids, 

Although  I  know  he  would  awaken  then — 

He  closed  them  thus  but  now  of  his  own  will. 

He  can  stay  with  me  while  I  do  not  lift  them." 

Gordon  Bottomley 

THE  OLD  BED 

Streaming  beneath  the  eaves,  the  sunset  light 
Turns  the  white  walls  and  ceiling  to  pure  gold, 
And  gold,  the  quilt  and  pillows  on  the  old 
Fourposter  bed — all  day  a  cold  drift-white — 
As  if,  in  a  gold  casket  glistering  bright, 
The  gleam  of  winter  sunshine  sought  to  hold 
The  sleeping  child  safe  from  the  dark  and  cold 
And  creeping  shadows  of  the  coming  night. 


136  NEW  VOICES 

Slowly  it  fades:  and  stealing  through  the  gloom 
Home-coming  shadows  throng  the  quiet  room, 
Grey  ghosts  that  move  unrustling,  without  breath, 
To  their  familiar  rest,  and  closer  creep 
About  the  little  dreamless  child  asleep 
Upon  the  bed  of  bridal,  birth  and  death. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

SUNRISE  ON  RYDAL  WATER 

To  E.  de  S. 

Come  down  at  dawn  from  windless  hills 

Into  the  valley  of  the  lake, 
Where  yet  a  larger  quiet  fills 
The  hour,  and  mist  and  water  make 
With  rocks  and  reeds  and  island  boughs 
One  silence  and  one  element, 
Where  wonder  goes  surely  as  once 
It  went 
By  Galilean  prows. 

Moveless  the  water  and  the  mist, 
Moveless  the  secret  air  above, 
Hushed,  as  upon  some  happy  tryst 
The  poised  expectancy  of  love; 
What  spirit  is  it  that  adores 
What  mighty  presence  yet  unseen? 
What  consummation  works  apace 
Between 
These  rapt  enchanted  shores? 

Never  did  virgin  beauty  wake 
Devouter  to  the  bridal  feast 

Than  moves  this  hour  upon  the  lake 
In  adoration  to  the  east. 
Here  is  the  bride  a  god  may  know, 
The  primal  will,  the  young  consent, 
Till  surely  upon  the  appointed  mood 
Intent 
The  god  shall  leap — and,  lo, 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      137 

Over  the  lake's  end  strikes  the  sun — 

White,  flameless  fire;  some  purity 
Thrilling  the  mist,  a  splendor  won 
Out  of  the  world's  heart.    Let  there  be 
Thoughts,  and  atonements,  and  desires; 
Proud  limbs,  and  undeliberate  tongue; 
Where  now  we  move  with  mortal  care 
Among 
Immortal  dews  and  fires. 

So  the  old  mating  goes  apace, 

Wind  with  the  sea,  and  blood  with  thought, 
Lover  with  lover;  and  the  grace 
Of  understanding  comes  unsought 
When  stars  into  the  twilight  steer, 
Or  thrushes  build  among  the  may, 
Or  wonder  moves  between  the  hills, 
And  day 

Comes  up  on  Rydal  mere. 

John  Drinkwater 
LEAVES 

One  by  one,  like  leaves  from  a  tree, 
All  my  faiths  have  forsaken  me; 
But  the  stars  above  my  head 
Burn  in  white  and  delicate  red, 
And  beneath  my  feet  the  earth 
Brings  the  sturdy  grass  to  birth. 
I  who  was  content  to  be 
But  a  silken-singing  tree, 
But  a  rustle  of  delight 
In  the  wistful  heart  of  night, 
I  have  lost  the  leaves  that  knew 
Touch  of  rain  and  weight  of  dew. 
Blinded  by  a  leafy  crown 
I  looked  neither  up  nor  down — 
But  the  leaves  that  fall  and  die 
Have  left  me  room  to  see  the  sky; 
Now  for  the  first  time  I  know 
Stars  above  and  earth  below. 

Sara  Teasdale 


138  NEW  VOICES 

SPRING 

At  the  first  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "Arise." 
At  the  second  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "Go  forth." 
And  the  winter  constellations  that  are  like  patient  ox-eyes 
Sank  below  the  white  horizon  at  the  north. 

At  the  tKird  hour,  it  was  as  if  one  said,  "I  thirst"; 

At  the  fourth  hour,  all  the  earth  was  still: 

Then  the  clouds  suddenly  swung  over,  stooped,  and  burst; 

And  the  rain  flooded  valley,  plain  and  hill. 

At  the  fifth  hour,  darkness  took  the  throne; 
At  the  sixth  hour,  the  earth  shook  and  the  wind  cried; 
At  the  seventh  hour,  the  hidden  seed  was  sown, 
At  the  eighth  hour,  it  gave  up  the  ghost  and  died. 

At  the  ninth  hour,  they  sealed  up  the  tomb; 
And  the  earth  was  then  silent  for  the  space  of  three  hours. 
But  at  the  twelfth  hour,  a  single  lily  from  the  gloom 
Shot  forth,  and  was  followed  by  a  whole  host  of  flowers. 

John  Gould  Fletcher 

IN  THE  POPPY  FIELD 

Mad  Patsy  said,  he  said  to  me, 
That  every  morning  he  could  see 
An  angel  walking  on  the  sky; 
Across  the  sunny  skies  of  morn 
He  threw  great  handfuls  far  and  nigh 
Of  poppy  seed  among  the  corn; 
And  then,  he  said,  the  angels  run 
To  see  the  poppies  in  the  sun. 

A  poppy  is  a  devil  weed, 
I  said  to  him — he  disagreed; 
He  said  the  devil  had  no  hand 
In  spreading  flowers  tall  and  fair 
Through  corn  and  rye  and  meadow  land, 
By  garth  and  barrow  everywhere: 
The  devil  has  not  any  flower, 
But  only  money  in  his  power. 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      139 

And  then  he  stretched  out  in  the  sun 
And  rolled  upon  his  back  for  fun: 
He  kicked  his  legs  and  roared  for  joy 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  down, 
He  said  he  was  a  little  boy 
And  would  not  work  for  any  clown: 
He  ran  and  laughed  behind  a  bee, 
And  danced  for  very  ecstasy. 

James  Stephens 
INTERLUDE 

I  am  not  old,  but  old  enough 
To  know  that  you  are  very  young. 
It  might  be  said  I  am  the  leaf, 
And  you  the  blossom  newly  sprung. 

So  I  shall  grow  a  while  with  you, 
And  hear  the  bee  and  watch  the  cloud, 
Before  the  dragon  on  the  branch, 
The  caterpillar  weaves  a  shroud. 

Scudder  Middleton 
MYSTERY 

If  a  star  can  grow 

On  a  blade  of  grass, 

If  a  rose  can  climb 

Like  a  Romeo, 

And  a  river  flow 

Through  a  granite  wall — 

Maybe  a  human  heart, 

Broken  within  a  breast, 

Can  heal  again 

In  the  simple  rain, 

When  a  man  is  laid  to  rest. 

Scudder  Middleton 

THE  GUM-GATHERER 

There  overtook  me  and  drew  me  in 
To  his  down-hill,  early-morning  stride, 
And  set  me  five  miles  on  my  road 
Better  than  if  he  had  had  me  ride, 


140  NEW  VOICES 

A  man  with  a  swinging  bag  for  load 
And  half  the  bag  w6und  round  his  hand. 
We  talked  like  barking  above  the  din 
Of  water  we  walked  along  beside. 
And  for  my  telling  him  where  I'd  been 
And  where  I  lived  in  mountain  land 
To  be  coming  home  the  way  I  was, 
He  told  me  a  little  about  himself. 
He  came  from  higher  up  in  the  pass 
Where  the  grist  of  the  new-beginning  brooks 
Is  blocks  split  off  the  mountain  mass — 
And  hopeless  grist  enough  it  looks 
Ever  to  grind  to  soil  for  grass. 
(The  way  it  is  will  do  for  moss.) 
There  he  had  built  his  stolen  shack. 
It  had  to  be  a  stolen  shack 
Because  of  the  fears  of  fire  and  loss 
That  trouble  the  sleep  of  lumber  folk: 
Visions  of  half  the  world  burned  black 
And  the  sun  shrunken  yellow  in  smoke. 
We  know  who  when  they  come  to  town 
Bring  berries  under  the  wagon  seat, 
Or  a  basket  of  eggs  between  their  feet; 
What  this  man  brought  in  a  cotton  sack 
Was  gum,  the  gum  of  the  mountain  spruce. 
He  showed  me  lumps  of  the  scented  stuff. 
Like  uncut  jewels,  dull  and  rough. 
It  comes  to  market  golden  brown; 
But  turns  to  pink  between  the  teeth. 

I  told  him  this  is  a  pleasant  life 
To  set  your  breast  to  the  bark  of  trees 
That  all  your  days  are  dim  beneath, 
And  reaching  up  with  a  little  knife, 
To  loose  the  resin  and  take  it  down 
And  bring  it  to  market  when  you  please. 

Robert  Frost 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       141 


THE  COW  IN  APPLE  TIME 

Something  inspires  the  only  cow  of  late 

To  make  no  more  of  a  wall  than  an  open  gate, 

And  think  no  more  of  wall-builders  than  fools. 

Her  face  is  flecked  with  pomace  and  she  drools 

A  cider  syrup.    Having  tasted  fruit, 

She  scorns  a  pasture  withering  to  the  root. 

She  runs  from  tree  to  tree  where  lie  and  sweeten 

The  windfalls  spiked  with  stubble  and  worm-eaten. 

She  leaves  them  bitten  when  she  has  to  fly. 

She  bellows  on  a  knoll  against  the  sky. 

Her  udder  shrivels  and  the  milk  goes  dry. 

Robert  Frost 

AT  NIGHT  (To  W.  M.) 

Home,  home  from  the  horizon  far  and  dear, 

Hither  the  soft  wings  sweep; 
Flocks  of  the  memories  of  the  day  draw  near 

The  dovecote  doors  of  sleep. 

Oh,  which  are  they  that  come  through  sweetest  light 

Of  all  these  homing  birds? 
Which  with  the  strangest  and  the  swiftest  flight 

Your  words  to  me,  your  words! 

Alice  Meynell 

FROM  "VARIATIONS" 

n 

Green  light,  from  the  moon, 
Pours  over  the  dark  blue  trees, 
Green  light  from  the  autumn  moon 
Pours  on  the  grass  .  .  . 
Green  light  falls  on  the  goblin  fountain 
Where  hesitant  lovers  meet  and  pass. 

They  laugh  in  the  moonlight,  touching  hands, 
They  move  like  leaves  on  the  wind  .  .  . 


142  NEW  VOICES 

I  remember  an  autumn  night  like  this, 
And  not  so  long  ago, 

When  other  lovers  were  blown  like  leaves, 
Before  the  coming  of  snow. 

Conrad  Aiken 

DAYBREAK 

Four  years  of  night  and  nightmare,  years  of  black 

Hate  and  its  murderous  attack; 

Four  years  of  midnight  terrors  till  the  brain, 

Beaten  in  the  intolerable  campaign, 

Saw  nothing  but  a  world  of  driven  men 

And  skies  that  never  could  be  clean  again; 

Hot  winds  that  tore  the  lungs,  great  gusts 

Of  rotting  madness  and  forgotten  lusts; 

Hills  draped  with  death;  the  beat  of  terrible  wings; 

Flowers  that  smelt  of  carrion;  monstrous  things 

That  crawled  on  iron  bellies  over  trees 

And  swarmed  in  blood,  till  even  the  seas 

Were  one  wet  putrefaction,  and  the  earth 

A  violated  grave  of  trampled  mirth. 

What  light  there  was,  was  only  there  to  show 

Intolerance  delivering  blow  on  blow, 

Bigotry  rampant,  honor  overborne, 

And  faith  derided  with  a  blast  of  scorn. 

This  was  our  daily  darkness;  we  had  thought 

All  freedom  worthless  and  all  beauty  naught. 

The  eager,  morning-hearted  days  were  gone 

When  we  took  joy  in  small  things:  in  the  sun, 

Tracing  a  delicate  pattern  through  thick  leaves, 

With  its  long,  yellow  pencils;  or  blue  eaves 

Frosted  with  moonlight,  and  one  ruddy  star 

Ringing  against  the  night,  a  chime 

Like  an  insistent,  single  rhyme; 

Or  see  the  full-blown  moon  stuck  on  a  spar, 

A  puff-ball  flower  on  a  rigid  stalk; 

Or  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  walk 

With  one  small  boy  and  listen  to  the  war 

Of  waters  pulling  at  a  stubborn  shore; 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       143 

Or  laugh  to  see  the  waves  run  out  of  bounds 

Like  boisterous  and  shaggy  hounds; 

Watching  the  stealthy  rollers  come  alive, 

And  shake  their  silver  manes  and  leap  and  dive; 

Or  listen  with  him  to  the  voiceless  talk 

Of  fireflies  and  daisies,  feel  the  late 

Dusk  full  of  unheard  music  or  vibrate 

To  a  more  actual  magic,  hear  the  notes 

Of  birds  with  sunset  shaking  on  their  throats; 

Or  watch  the  emerald  and  olive  trees 

Turn  purple  ghosts  in  dusty  distances; 

The  city's  kindling  energy;  the  sweet 

Pastoral  of  an  empty  street; 

Foot-ball  and  friends;  lyrics  and  daffodils; 

The  sovereign  splendor  of  the  marching  hills — 

These  were  all  ours  to  choose  from  and  enjoy 

Until  this  foul  disease  came  to  destroy 

The  casual  beneficence  of  life.  .  .  . 

But  now  a  thin  edge,  like  a  merciful  knife, 
Pierces  the  shadows,  and  a  chiseling  ray 
Cuts  the  thick  folds  away. 
Murmurs  of  morning,  glad,  awakening  cries, 
Hints  of  majestic  rhythms,  rise. 
Dawn  will  not  be  denied.    The  blackness  shakes, 
And  here  a  brand  and  there  a  beacon  breaks 
Into  the  glory  that  will  soon  be  hurled 
Over  a  cleared,  rejuvenated  world — • 
A  world  of  bright  democracies,  of  fair 
Disputes,  desires,  and  tolerance  everywhere, 
With  laughter  loose  again,  and  time  enough 
To  feel  the  warm-lipped  and  cool-fingered  love, 
With  kindly  passion  lifted  from  the  dead; 
Where  daylight  shall  be  bountifully  spread, 
And  darkness  but  a  wide  and  welcome  bed. 

Louis  Untermeyer 


144  NEW  VOICES 


VISTAS 

As  I  walked  through  the  rumorous  streets 
Of  the  wind-rustled,  elm-shaded  city 
Where  all  of  the  houses  were  friends 

And  the  trees  were  all  lovers  of  her, 
The  spell  of  its  old  enchantment 
Was  woven  again  to  subdue  me 
With  magic  of  flickering  shadows, 

Blown  branches  and  leafy  stir. 

Street  after  street,  as  I  passed, 
Lured  me  and  beckoned  me  onward 
With  memories  frail  as  the  odor 

Of  lilac  adrift  on  the  air. 
At  the  end  of  each  breeze-blurred  vista 
She  seemed  to  be  watching  and  waiting, 
With  leaf  shadows  over  her  gown 

And  sunshine  gilding  her  hair. 

For  there  was  a  dream  that  the  kind  God 
Withheld,  while  granting  us  many — 
But  surely,  I  think,  we  shall  come 

Sometime,  at  the  end,  she  and  I, 
To  the  heaven  He  keeps  for  all  tired  souls, 
The  quiet  suburban  gardens 
Where  He  Himself  walks  in  the  evening 

Beneath  the  rose-dropping  sky 
And  watches  the  balancing  elm  trees 
Sway  in  the  early  starshine 
When  high  in  their  murmurous  arches 

The  night  breeze  ruffles  by. 

Odell  Shepard 

CERTAIN  AMERICAN  POETS 

They  cowered  inert  before  the  study  fire 
While  mighty  winds  were  ranging  wide  and  free, 
Urging  their  torpid  fancies  to  aspire 
With  "Euhoe!  Bacchus!  Have  a  cup  of  tea." 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       145 

They  tripped  demure  from  church  to  lecture-hall, 
Shunning  the  snare  of  farthingales  and  curls. 
Woman  they  thought  half  angel  and  half  doll, 
The  Muses'  temple  a  boarding-school  for  girls. 

Quaffing  Pierian  draughts  from  Boston  pump, 
They  toiled  to  prove  their  homiletic  art 
Could  match  with  nasal  twang  and  pulpit  thump 
In  maxims  glib  of  meeting-house  and  mart. 

Serenely  their  ovine  admirers  graze. 
Apollo  wears  frock-coats,  the  Muses  stays. 

O dell  Shepard 

AFTER  SUNSET 

I  have  an  understanding  with  the  hills 
At  evening,  when  the  slanted  radiance  fills 
Their  hollows,  and  the  great  winds  let  them  be, 
And  they  are  quiet  and  look  down  at  me. 
Oh,  then  I  see  the  patience  in  their  eyes 
Out  of  the  centuries  that  made  them  wise. 
They  lend  me  hoarded  memory,  and  I  learn 
Their  thoughts  of  granite  and  their  whims  of  fern, 
And  why  a  dream  of  forests  must  endure 
Though  every  tree  be  slain;  and  how  the  pure, 
Invisible  beauty  has  a  word  so  brief, 
A  flower  can  say  it,  or  a  shaken  leaf, 
But  few  may  ever  snare  it  in  a  song, 
Though  for  the  quest  a  life  is  not  too  long. 
When  the  blue  huUs  grow  tender,  when  they  pull 
The  twilight  close  with  gesture  beautiful, 
And  shadows  are  their  garments,  and  the  air 
Deepens,  and  the  wild  veery  is  at  prayer, 
Their  arms  are  strong  around  me;  and  I  know 
That  somehow  I  shall  follow  when  they  go 
To  the  still  land  beyond  the  evening  star, 
Where  everlasting  hills  and  valleys  are, 
And  silence  may  not  hurt  us  any  more, 
And  terror  shall  be  past,  and  grief  and  war. 

Grace  Hazard  Conkling 


146  NEW  VOICES 

SHIPS 

I  cannot  tell  their  wonder  nor  make  known 
Magic  that  once  thrilled  through  me  to  the  bone, 
But  all  men  praise  some  beauty,  tell  some  tale, 
Vent  a  high  mood  which  makes  the  rest  seem  pale, 
Pour  their  heart's  blood  to  flourish  one  green  leaf, 
Follow  some  Helen  for  her  gift  of  grief, 
And  fail  in  what  they  mean,  whate'er  they  do: 
You  should  have  seen,  man  cannot  tell  to  you 
The  beauty  of  the  ships  of  that  my  city. 
That  beauty  now  is  spoiled  by  the  sea's  pity; 
For  one  may  haunt  the  pier  a  score  of  times, 
Hearing  St.  Nicholas  bells  ring  out  the  chimes, 
Yet  never  see  those  proud  ones  swaying  home 
With  mainyards  backed  and  bows  a  cream  of  foam, 
Those  bows  so  lovely-curving,  cut  so  fine, 
Those  coulters  of  the  many-bubbled  brine, 
As  once,  long  since,  when  all  the  docks  were  filled 
With  that  sea-beauty  man  has  ceased  to  build. 

Yet,  though  their  splendor  may  have  ceased  to  be 
Each  played  her  sovereign  part  in  making  me; 
Now  I  return  my  thanks  with  heart  and  lips 
For  the  great  queenliness  of  all  those  ships. 

And  first  the  first  bright  memory,  still  so  clear, 
An  autumn  evening  in  a  golden  year, 
When  in  the  last  lit  moments  before  dark 
The  Chepica,  a  steel-gray  lovely  barque, 
Came  to  an  anchor  near  us  on  the  flood, 
Her  trucks  aloft  in  sun-glow  red  as  blood. 

Then  come  so  many  ships  that  I  could  fill 

Three  docks  with  their  fair  hulls  remembered  still, 

Each  with  her  special  memory's  special  grace, 

Riding  the  sea,  making  the  waves  give  place 

To  delicate  high  beauty;  man's  best  strength, 

Noble  in  every  line  in  all  their  length. 

Ailsa,  Genista,  ships,  with  long  jibbooms, 

The  Wanderer  with  great  beauty  and  strange  dooms, 


THE  DICTION  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       147 

Liverpool  (mightiest  then)  superb,  sublime, 
The  California  huge,  as  slow  as  time. 
The  Copley  swift,  the  perfect  J.  T.  North, 
The  loveliest  barque  my  city  has  sent  forth, 
Dainty  John  Lockett  well  remembered  yet, 
The  splendid  Argus  with  her  skysail  set, 
Stalwart  Drumdiff,  white- blocked,  majestic  Sierras, 
Divine  bright  ships,  the  water's  standard-bearers; 
Melpomene,  Euphrosyne,  and  their  sweet 
Sea-troubling  sisters  of  the  Fernie  fleet; 
Corunna  (in  whom  my  friend  died)  and  the  old 
Long  since  loved  Esmeralda  long  since  sold. 
Centurion  passed  in  Rio,  Glaucus  spoken, 
Aladdin  burnt,  the  Bidston  water-broken, 
Yola,  in  whom  my  friend  sailed,  Dawpool  trim, 
Fierce-bowed  Egeria  plunging  to  the  swim, 
Stanmore  wide-sterned,  sweet  Cupica,  tall  Bard, 
Queen  in  all  harbors  with  her  moon-sail  yard. 

Though  I  tell  many,  there  must  still  be  others, 
McVickar  Marshall's  ships  and  Fernie  Brother's, 
Lochs,  Counties,  Shires,  Drums,  the  countless  lines 
Whose  house-flags  all  were  once  familiar  signs 
At  high  main-trucks  on  Mersey's  windy  ways 
When  sunlight  made  the  wind-white  water  blaze. 
Their  names  bring  back  old  mornings,  when  the  docks 
Shone  with  their  house-flags  and  their  painted  blocks, 
Their  raking  masts  below  the  Custom  House 
And  all  the  marvellous  beauty  of  their  bows. 

Familiar  steamers,  too,  majestic  steamers, 

Shearing  Atlantic  roller-tops  to  streamers, 

Umbria,  Etruria,  noble,  still  at  sea, 

The  grandest,  then,  that  man  had  brought  to  be. 

Majestic,  City  of  Paris,  City  of  Rome, 

Forever  jealous  racers,  out  and  home. 

The  Alfred  Holt's  blue  smoke-stacks  down  the  stream, 

The  fair  Loanda  with  her  bows  a-cream. 

Booth  liners,  Anchor  liners,  Red  Star  liners, 

The  marks  and  styles  of  countless  ship-designers, 


148  NEW  VOICES 

The  Magdalena,  Puno,  Potosi, 

Lost  Cotopaxi,  all  well  known  to  me. 

These  splendid  ships,  each  with  her  grace,  her  glory, 

Her  memory  of  old  song  or  comrade's  story, 

Still  in  my  mind  the  image  of  life's  need, 

Beauty  in  hardest  action,  beauty  indeed. 

"They  built  great  ships  and  sailed  them,"  sounds  most  brave, 

Whatever  arts  we  have  or  fail  to  have. 

I  touch  my  country's  mind,  I  come  to  grips 

With  half  her  purpose,  thinking  of  these  ships: 

That  art  untouched  by  softness,  all  that  line 

Drawn  ringing  hard  to  stand  the  test  of  brine; 

That  nobleness  and  grandeur,  all  that  beauty 

Born  of  a  manly  life  and  bitter  duty, 

That  splendor  of  fine  bows  which  yet  could  stand 

The  shock  of  rollers  never  checked  by  land; 

That  art  of  masts,  sail-crowded,  fit  to  break, 

Yet  stayed  to  strength  and  backstayed  into  rake; 

The  life  demanded  by  that  art,  the  keen 

Eye-puckered,  hard-case  seamen,  silent,  lean. 

They  are  grander  things  than  all  the  art  of  towns; 

Their  tests  are  tempests  and  the  sea  that  drowns. 

They  are  my  country's  line,  her  great  art  done 

By  strong  brains  laboring  on  the  thought  unwon 

They  mark  our  passage  as  a  race  of  men — 

Earth  will  not  see  such  ships  as  those  again. 

John  Masefield 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS 

Very  likely  it  is  a  good  thing  that  most  people  are  conserva- 
tive. If  most  of  us  were  radicals  the  world  might  be  a  fatiguing 
place  to  live  in.  We  should  all  suffer  from  nervous  prostration 
most  of  the  time  as  a  result  of  breaking  the  speed  laws  of  rapid 
progress.  After  all,  the  normal  conservative  is  a  very  decent 
person,  liberal  enough  to  try  all  things  in  due  season  and  with 
due  persuasion,  and  wise  enough  to  hold  fast  to  that  which  is 
good. 

But  always  there  are  people  who  are  more  than  normally  con- 
servative. They  are  the  ultra-conservatives.  They  believe  in 
"the  good  old  times."  They  believe  that  things  should  always 
be  done  the  way  they  used  to  be  done.  They  think  that  "  things 
were  better"  in  the  days  of  their  childhood,  or  in  the  times  of 
their  fathers,  who,  in  turn,  probably  thought  the  same  thing  of 
the  times  before  their  own.  Ultra-conservatives  are  people  in 
whose  minds  the  ages  progress  backwards  in  time  to  a  lost  and 
lamented  golden  age  of  impossible  virtue  and  intolerable  beauty. 

In  the  poetry  of  to-day  we  have  both  conservative  and  ultra- 
conservative  poets.  The  moderate  conservatives,  poets  like 
Bliss  Carman,  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  Anna  Hemps tead  Branch, 
Lizette  Woodworth  Reese,  Ada  Foster  Murray,  Katharine  Lee 
Bates,  and  a  number  of  others  who  have  been  mentioned  in 
preceding  pages,  are  content  simply  to  hold  fast  to  all  that  is 
good  in  the  traditions  of  English  poetry.  They  are  men  and 
women  of  genuine  culture,  the  heirs  of  the  ages  claiming  their 
heritage.  They  are  not  in  the  forefront  of  what  is  called  "  the 
new  poetry  movement,"  nor  are  they  in  sympathy  with  all  of 
its  manifestations.  But  their  best  work  is  done  in  accordance 
with  the  same  underlying  principles  that  are  the  credo  of  "  the 
new  poets,"  although  they  do  not  go  to  extremes  in  practice 

149 


150  NEW  VOICES 

or  in  theory  and  although  they  do  not  bring  into  contemporary 
poetry  anything  "new"  except  what  is  new  in  their  own  person- 
alities, the  thing  which  makes  all  poets,  as  Lord  Dunsany  says, 
* '  incomparable. ' '  These  moderate  conservatives  make  beautiful 
original  patterns  in  poetry  and  use  images  and  symbols  and 
rhythms  that  are  the  result  of  sincere  reactions  to  stimuli  and 
the  sincere  expression  of  emotions  felt.  They  avoid  artificial, 
stereotyped  diction.  They  use  the  language  of  the  best  con- 
temporary speech  in  most  of  their  verse.  .They  are  seldom  dif- 
fuse, vague,  sentimental.  They  are  capable  of  concise  lyrical 
expression  and  do  not  revel  in  decoration  simply  for  its  own  sake 
and  without  due  regard  to  its  structural  importance. 

The  ultra-conservatives  are  poets  of  quite  another  kind.  If  it 
be  fair  to  judge  by  their  work,  they  must  believe  that  great 
poets  are  dead  poets  and  the  old  thoughts,  the  best  thoughts, 
forever  and  ever,  Amen.  They  must  believe  that  the  best 
thing  poets  can  do  is  to  write  in  the  spirit  of  and  after  the  manner 
of  the  ancients  who  never  die.  They  seem  to  care  little  for  con- 
temporary life  and  thought  and  do  not  create  their  poems  after 
the  manner  of  contemporary  poetry. 

Most  of  these  ultra-conservative  poets  are  men  and  women 
of  unquestioned  culture,  men  and  women  whose  minds  are 
saturated  with  literature,  especially  the  literature  of  the  past. 
They  are  steeped  in  culture  as  a  rum-cake  is  steeped  in  rum. 
They  know  more  about  it  than  most  of  the  radical  poets  ever 
will  know.  But  they  are  not  so  near  to  contemporary  life.  And 
the  poems  that  they  make  often  seem  to  be  the  result  of  a  re- 
action to  literature,  not  of  a  reaction  to  life.  Much  of  what 
they  write  is  lunar,  not  solar,  a  cool,  glimmering  reflection  from 
other  and  stronger  lights.  This  is  not  to  say  that  their  work  is 
imitative  in  any  childish  way.  It  is  derivative,  not  from  the 
strength  of  any  one  genius  of  the  past,  but  from  thought's  com- 
panionship with  many  geniuses.  It  is  the  poetry  of  the  learned 
rather  than  the  poetry  of  those  with  "small  Latin  and  less 
Greek." 

It  is  these  poets  who  argue  in  poetry  with  modern  theories 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS  151 

of  life  and  the  universe.  It  is  these  poets  who  prefer  the  old 
wisdoms  and  follies  of  the  race  to  the  new.  It  is  these  poets 
who  create  out  of  old  mythologies  and  creeds  the  old  recipes 
for  truth  and  beauty  in  a  world  that  is  new.  And  it  is  these 
poets  whose  technique  differs  in  kind  from  the  technique  of  most 
of  the  poets  whose  work  we  have  discussed. 

In  the  first  place  it  is  difficult  to  discover  in  their  poetry  any 
intimacy  of  relationship  between  the  emotion  felt  (the  mood  and 
meaning  of  the  poem)  and  the  pattern  of  the  poem,  its  rhythm, 
imagery,  and  symbolism.  Very  often  the  ultra-conservatives 
seem  to  have  chosen  a  rhythm  which  they  consider  beautiful 
in  and  of  itself,  and  then  to  have  fitted  their  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings into  the  pattern  of  the  rhythm.  They  seldom  invent  forms 
of  decided  strength  and  originality,  like  the  forms  Mr.  Kipling 
and  Mr.  Chesterton  use,  but  choose  their  forms  academically 
from  those  already  invented.  Their  rhythms,  therefore,  are  not 
always  of  one  sort  and  substance  with  their  moods.  Their 
designs  are  like  moulds  into  which  they  press  what  they  wish  to 
say.  And  strict  symmetry  of  metrical  structure  is  so  important 
in  their  minds  that  they  will  go  to  all  extremes  to  preserve  it. 
Sometimes  they  will  leave  out  words  that  are  important  gram- 
matically or  logically,  words  that  would  never  be  omitted  in 
lines  of  good  prose,  in  order  to  avoid  a  change  in  accent,  a  sub- 
stitution of  a  long  syllable  for  two  short  syllables,  or  the  inter- 
polation of  an  extra  short  syllable  in  the  line.  Sometimes  they 
will  insert  superfluous  adjectives  at  the  ends  of  lines  for  the 
sake  of  rhyme.  Or  they  will  invert  the  order  of  words  in  sen- 
tences and  rearrange  phrases  and  clauses  in  a  manner  closely 
resembling  that  of  the  Teutons,  to  serve  the  end  of  rhyme. 
For  to  the  ultra-conservatives  rhyme  is  more  than  simply  one 
way  of  adding  to  the  resonance  and  charm  of  poetry.  It  is  a 
convention  never  to  be  forgotten  save  in  blank  verse  or  when  one 
is  asleep. 

The  diction  of  the  ultra-conservatives  is  sometimes  modern 
and  very  beautiful,  but  often  archaic  and  literary.  It  is  usually 
the  ultra-conservative  poet  who  prefers  the  use  of  the  old  pro- 


152  NEW  VOICES 

nominal  forms  for  direct  address  and  begins  his  poem  with  "O 
Thou"  or  "Ye  who."  It  is  he  who  prefers  the  archaic  forms  of 
verbs— the  "hast,"  "art,"  "wert"  forms  that  go  with  the  ar- 
chaic pronouns.  It  is  usually  the  ultra-conservative  poet  who 
will  use  a  form  like  "careth"  in  one  line,  in  the  third  per- 
son, and  in  another  line,  for  the  sake  of  rhyme,  a  form  like 
"cares,"  also  in  the  third  person.  It  is  the  ultra-conservative 
poet  who  prefers  the  diction  that  used  to  be  called  "poetic," 
the  diction  that  once  belonged  to  life  and  was  used  by  poets 
of  other  periods  wisely  and  well  because  they  found  it  close  to 
life. 

It  is  the  ultra-conservative  poet  who  appears  to  believe  in 
imagery  and  symbolism  as  decorative  additions  to  the  poem 
rather  than  as  structural  parts  of  its  truth  and  beauty. 

For  these  reasons  the  poets  and  critics  who  belong  to  what  is 
called  "  the  new  poetry  movement "  have  been  exceedingly  cruel 
to  the  ultra-conservatives.  They  have  not  always  been  just. 
It  is  very  hard  to  be  just  in  the  consideration  of  ideals  which  we 
are  trying  to  displace,  for  which  we  are  trying  to  substitute  ideals 
that  we  consider  better  and  higher.  But  in  the  interests  of 
poetry  we  should  be  just.  For  the  poems  of  the  ultra-conserva- 
tives mean  beauty  to  them,  as  the  poems  of  the  radicals  mean 
beauty  to  radicals.  Time  alone  can  tell,  in  each  individual 
case,  who  is  right. 

Chief  among  ultra-conservative  poets  in  popularity  and  fame 
is  Alfred  Noyes,  and  many  of  the  battles  of  contemporary  criti- 
cism have  been  fought  out  on  the  question  of  the  merit  of  his 
work.  When  his  first  poems  were  brought  to  the  attention  of  the 
American  public  in  the  days  before  the  "  new  poetry  movement" 
was  properly  begun,  it  was  quite  the  thing  to  like  Mr.  Noyes. 
Now,  if  one  would  be  popular  as  a  critic,  one  must  decry  him  as 
Victorian.  But  strict  justice  demands  neither  out-and-out 
praise  nor  out-and-out  censure  for  his  work.  Some  of  it  is  very 
much  worth  while.  He  can  do  certain  things  that  other  poets 
of  to-day  can  not  do  so  well,  or  at  least  have  not  done.  He  does 
other  things  very  badly  indeed.  But  it  is  the  melancholy  truth 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS  153 

that  he  is  as  popular  for  the  things  he  does  badly  as  for  the  things 
he  does  well.   This  is  why. 

His  ideas  do  not  conflict  in  any  way  with  those  to  which  men 
and  women  trained  in  the  schools  of  the  past  generation  are 
accustomed.  His  emotions  are  always  decorous.  His  tunes 
jingle  happily.  His  colors  are  pretty.  His  verse  is  scented  with 
rose  and  sweet  with  honey.  What  he  says  of  Chopin,  in  his 
poem,  "The  Death  of  Chopin/'  is  as  true  of  himself.  He  has 

"Made  Life  as  honey  o'er  the  brink 
Of  Death  drip  slow." 

The  poorest  of  his  poems  are  those  that  are  argumentative. 
Poets  seldom  make  good  poems  when  they  argue.  But  some- 
times they  succeed  in  presenting  their  ideas  with  a  certain  terse 
skill  and  vividness  that  are  interesting.  Mr.  Noyes  does  not. 
When  he  upbraids  the  scientist  and  confronts  what  he  chooses 
to  think  of  as  unfortunate  and  benighted  materialism  with  the 
conventional  and  ultra-conservative  idea  of  religion,  he  makes 
it  quite  evident  that  he  has  not  taken  pains  to  know  and  under- 
stand the  ideas  and  ideals  of  his  imaginary  opponent.  Without 
any  insincere  intentions,  I  am  sure,  he  misinterprets  his  ad- 
versary and  then  valiantly  defies  the  misinterpretation.  The 
poems  in  which  Mr.  Noyes  slays  straw  men  are  quite  without 
any  quality  of  deep  insight  and  without  the  imaginative  felicity 
of  which  he  is  capable  at  his  best.  They  serve  to  convey  to  the 
reader  an  idea  for  which  no  poet  would  care  to  be  responsible, 
that  it  is  better  to  be  intellectually  comfortable  than  intel- 
lectually candid.  Take,  as  an  example,  "  The  Old  Sceptic." 

Very  little  better  than  these  argumentative  poems  are  his 
long  and  diffuse  and  sentimental  lyrics  and  his  epic,  "Drake." 
His  lyrics  lack  concentration  and  power.  His  epic  lacks  dignity 
and  reality.  When  we  stop  to  think  of  what  the  actualities  of 
life  must  have  been  for  that  gallant  mariner,  Mr.  Noyes'  pages 
of  romantic  and  velvety  narrative  verse  and  his  suave  inter- 
polated lyrics  seem  as  unreal  as  the  landscape  painted  on  the 
drop  curtain  of  a  theater. 


154  NEW  VOICES 

It  is  superfluous,  too,  to  say  much  of  Mr.  Noyes'  sentimental- 
ity. Other  critics  have  told  the  tale  of  it  unkindly  enough. 
There  is  too  much  said  in  his  poetry  of  the  "seas  of  dream'* 
and  the  "  shores  of  song."  In  the  lyric  called  " The  Last  Battle " 
we  find  this  stanza: 

"Now  all  the  plains  of  Europe  smoke  with  marching  hooves  of  thun- 
der, 

And  through  each  ragged  mountain-gorge  the  guns  begin  to  gleam; 
And  round  a  hundred  cities  where  the  women  watch  and  wonder, 

The  tramp  of  passing  armies  aches  and  faints  into  a  dream." 

This  moves  along  very  pleasantly  and  seems  very  good  until  we 
stop  to  analyze  it.  Analysis  is  cruel.  But  how  can  the  plains  of 
Europe  "smoke"  with  "hooves"?  And  do  hooves  march  like 
feet?  And  what  are  "hooves  of  thunder?"  And  why  do  the 
guns  "begin  to"  gleam?  Is  it  not  because  Mr.  Noyes  needs 
three  more  syllables  to  fill  out  the  metrical  scheme  of  the  line? 
And  how  does  the  "tramp"  of  the  armies  "ache?"  And  is  it 
emotionally  honest  to  say  that  the  tramp  of  armies  "faints  into 
a  dream?  "  Is  that  the  effect  it  has  on  consciousness?  The  daily 
newspapers  print  many  paragraphs  that  give  a  truer  and  more 
vivid  idea  of  warfare  and  the  passing  armies  than  this  stanza 
gives. 

But  this  is  enough  of  censure.  It  remains  to  tell  the  story  of 
the  very  real  beauty  in  Mr.  Noyes '  work.  For  this  is  the  beauty 
which  is  neglected  or  forgotten  by  many  contemporary  critics, 
simply  because  they  do  not  like  the  qualities  described  in  what 
we  have  already  said  and  will  not  look  for  compensating  virtues. 

At  his  best  Mr.  Noyes  is  that  very  rare  poet,  the  maker  of  fine 
ballads.  Not  to  recognize  this  fact  is  to  be  altogether  unjust  to 
him  and  blind  to  values  in  poetry.  He  has  the  story  teller's  gift, 
the  pleasant  fancy,  the  sense  of  the  dramatic  incident,  the  light, 
quick  touch,  the  facility  with  rhyme  and  rhythm,  which  go  into 
the  making  of  good  ballads.  Mr.  Noyes  makes  such  very  good 
ballads  that  he  should  never  do  anything  else.  "The  High- 
wayman," quick,  fluent,  dramatic,  merits  the  popularity  which 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS  155 

many  of  his  less  admirable  poems  have  won.  And  what  can  be 
said  that  will  detract  from  the  charm  of  that  delightful,  rollick- 
ing, ringing  ballad,  "Forty  Singing  Seamen"? 

"Forty  Singing  Seamen"  is  a  very  fine  poem  of  its  kind,  a 
masterpiece  among  modern  ballads.  It  is  a  poem  of  dual  nature, 
never  very  far  from  reality,  never  very  far  from  a  world  that  is 
purely  imaginary.  The  sailors,  after  drinking  the  grog  of  the 
ghosts,  have  preposterous  visions,  but  they  have  the  visions 
in  a  very  real  and  human  way.  The  sailor- talk  seems  to  have  the 
right  flavor. 

"Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Mogadore  we  plodded, 

Forty  singing  seamen  in  an  old  black  barque, 
And  we  landed  in  the  twilight  where  a  Polyphemus  nodded 

With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and  yellow  through  the 

dark! 

For  his  eye  was  growing  mellow, 
Rich  and  ripe  and  red  and  yellow, 

As  was  time,  since  Old  Ulysses  made  him  bellow  in  the  dark! 
Cho. — Since  Ulysses  bunged  his  eye  up  with  a  pine-torch  in  the  dark! " 

That  is  the  first  stanza  and  every  other  stanza  is  as  good,  as 
rich  and  lively  and  entertaining.  Only  very  dull  people,  or  very 
sophisticated  people,  of  whom  there  are  too  many  nowadays, 
can  fail  to  get  fun  out  of  a  ballad  like  that. 

Moreover  the  technique  of  it  is  admirable.    The  rhythm  is 
the  true  accompaniment  of  the  story  and  the  spirit,  and  just    ./ 
what  a  ballad  rhythm  ought  to  be.    The  imagery  is  admirable  y 
and  always  important  in  the  life  and  structure  of  the  poem.    It  is 
not  a  poem  for  the  learned  and  sober.    It  is  not  a  poem  for  the 
aesthete  of  the  saffron  schools.    It  is  a  poem  for  normal,  whole- 
some, red-blooded  human  beings.    And  in  this  day  and  age  when 
few  poets  can  make  ballads  that  are  even  readable,  we  should 
be  the  more  grateful  for  this  achievement. 

Mr.  Noyes  has  written  other  poems,  in  a  similar  vein,  that  are 
not  to  be  despised.  His  "Song  of  a  Wooden-Legged  Fiddler" 
is  one  of  them. 


156  NEW  VOICES 

There  are  good  passages,  also,  in  "The  Forest  of  Wild 
Thyme,"  and  especially  in  Part  II,  called  "The  First  Dis- 
covery." From  this  poem  are  taken  the  following  delicately 
imagined  lines: 

"If  you  could  suddenly  become 

As  small  a  thing  as  they, 
A  midget  child,  a  new  Tom  Thumb, 

A  little  gauze-winged  fay, 
Oh  then,  as  through  the  mighty  shades 
Of  wild  thyme  woods  and  violet  glades 
You  groped  your  forest-way, 
How  fraught  each  fragrant  bough  would  be 
With  dark  o'er-hanging  mystery." 

Another  well  known  poet  of  the  ultra-conservative  type  is 
George  Edward  Woodberry.  His  finest  achievement  in  poetry 
may  well  be  his  sonnet  sequence  called  "Ideal  Passion."  Many 
critics  have  praised  it  lavishly.  Writing  in  the  Bulletin  of  The 
Poetry  Society  of  America,  Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse  said,  "It  is 
doubtful  if  Mr.  Woodberry  has  done  anything  finer  than  these 
sonnets  which  invoke  again  the  spirit  of  the  'Vita  Nuova'  and 
other  great  expressions  of  love  sublimated  to  an  unattainable 
ideal."  That  is  an  exact  statement  of  the  quality  of  these  son- 
nets. But,  if  we  think  of  them  in  a  purely  human  way,  and  with- 
out regard  to  the  spirit  of  other  literature,  which  they  may  be 
said  to  invoke,  we  miss  something  which  would  give  them  vi- 
tality. They  are  rare,  but  attenuated.  They  lack  the  Antaean 
strength  that  conies  only  from  the  earth.  The  Hercules  of 
idealism  has  strangled  them  in  mid  air.  They  make  us  feel  an 
obligation  to  rise  beyond  gravitation,  to  breathe  without  oxygen. 
After  all,  is  it  not  true  that  ideals,  to  be  most  serviceable  to 
mankind,  must  grow  out  of  the  common  racial  experience  of 
mankind  and  fulfill  themselves  in  the  most  lovely  flowering  of 
that  experience?  There  is  beauty  in  the  lines  that  say, 

"in  a  flying  marble  fold 
Of  Hellas  once  I  saw  eternity 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS       157 

Flutter  about  her  form;  all  nature  she 
Inspirits,  but  round  her  being  there  is  rolled 
The  inextinguishable  beauty  old 

Of  the  far  shining  mountains  and  the  sea." 

but  it  is  chilly  beauty.  This  sonnet  sequence,  however,  is  an 
intellectual  achievement. 

A  poet  hardly  less  conservative  in  type,  but  with  a  warmth 
and  quaintness  of  manner  not  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Woodberry's 
poetry,  is  Olive  Tilford  Dargan.  She  has  the  gift  of  saying, 
sometimes,  the  simple,  inevitable  words  that  make  the  unfor- 
gettable picture.  She  does  this  more  than  once  in  that  quiet- 
toned,  freely  rhythmical  poem  called  "Old  Fairingdown,"  in 
lines  like  these: 

"Each  mute  old  house  is  more  old  than  the  other, 
And  each  wears  its  vines  like  ragged  hair 
Round  the  half -blind  windows." 

That  is  authentic  poetry,  original  and  true. 

How  greatly  it  differs  from  lines  like  the  following  taken 
from  "The  Magdalen  to  Her  Poet  "! 

"Take  back  thy  song;  or  let  me  hear  what  thou 
Heardst  anciently  from  me, 

The  woman;  now 

This  wassail  drift  on  boughless  shore; 
Once  lyre-veined  leading  thee 

To  swinging  doors 
Out  of  the  coiling  dark." 

Such  lines  as  these  are  not  only  obscure  but  uninteresting.  And 
a  comparison  of  these  two  passages  will  serve  to  show  the  kind 
of  thing  conservatives  do  at  their  best,  and  when  they  are  not 
at  their  best,  the  typical  excellences  and  faults  of  the  group. 

Mrs.  Dargan's  best  work,  like  the  best  work  of  Mr.  Noyes, 
has  been  done  in  the  making  of  a  ballad.  If  she  would  only  make 
more  ballads  as  charming  as  "Path  Flower,"  how  happy  we 


i $8     .  NEW  VOICES 

should  be!  "Path  Flower"  is  at  once  very  simple  and  very  con- 
ventional. It  uses  one  of  the  typical  stanzas  of  balladry.  It 
deals  with  the  simplest  of  incidents,  something  that  might 
happen  at  any  time  in  the  Me  of  any  kindly  person,  the  giving 
of  a  small  coin  to  a  young  girl  who  looked  ragged  and  hungry! 
But  this  poem  is  so  magically  made  that  we  are  as  much  in- 
terested in  this  little  incident  as  we  could  be  in  an  event  more 
important.  The  interest  is  admirably  sustained  from  line  to  line 
and  the  poem  is  written  with  tact,  refinement  and  delicacy  of 
perception.  The  same  quaintness  of  manner  which  is  pleasing 
in  "Old  Fairingdown"  is  found  in  "Path  Flower." 

"At  foot  each  tiny  blade  grew  big 

And  taller  stood  to  hear, 
And  every  leaf  on  every  twig 

Was  like  a  little  ear." 

Enough  has  been  said  about  the  work  of  the  ultra-conserva- 
tive poets  to  show  that  there  are  two  ideals  of  poetry  to-day, 
theirs,  and  the  ideal  of  most  of  the  other  poets.  To  the  ultra- 
conservatives,  poetry  is  most  intimately  associated  with  litera- 
ture. To  the  others  it  is  most  intimately  associated  with  life. 
To  the  ultra-conservatives,  it  is  something  sacrosanct  and  pre- 
cious, something  a  little  too  fragile  for  every  day  use.  To  the 
others  it  is  spiritual  bread  and  butter. 

Now  unfortunately,  many  ultra-conservatives  never  realize 
that,  by  giving  to  poetry  this  quality  of  the  sacrosanct  and  the 
precious,  they  are  keeping  it  away  from  all  that  makes  it  most 
meaningful  and  lovable  to  the  people  of  the  every  day  world. 
Not  that  the  standard  of  poetry  should  be  lowered  that  it  may 
be  brought  close  to  human  hearts — the  end  is  not  achieved  in 
that  way!  Rather  the  standard  should  be  raised  in  spirit  and 
in  technique  so  that  poetry  achieves  a  simple  greatness  and  a 
great  simplicity  worthy  of  the  people.  Poetry  written  in  a 
special  literary  language  with  prescribed  rhythms  and  conven- 
tional ideas  and  set  patterns  may  have  beauty  of  a  kind,  and 
sometimes  does  have.  But  it  is  a  beauty  of  tapestries,  not  a 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS  159 

beauty  of  wildflowers  and  bird-song.  And  it  is  when  they  escape 
from  the  bondage  of  conventional  verbiage  and  meter,  and  be- 
come, for  the  nonce,  simple,  natural  and  human,  that  we  delight 
to  name  the  men  and  women  of  this  type,  not  ultra-conservatives, 
but  poets. 

SONG 

For  me  the  jasmine  buds  unfold 

And  silver  daisies  star  the  lea, 
The  crocus  hoards  the  sunset  gold, 

And  the  wild  rose  breathes  for  me. 
I  feel  the  sap  through  the  bough  returning, 

I  share  the  skylark's  transport  fine, 
I  know  the  fountain's  wayward  yearning, 

I  love,  and  the  world  is  mine! 

I  love,  and  thoughts  that  sometime  grieved, 

Still  well  remembered,  grieve  not  me; 
From  all  that  darkened  and  deceived 

Upsoars  my  spirit  free. 
For  soft  the  hours  repeat  one  story, 

Sings  the  sea  one  strain  divine; 
My  clouds  arise  all  flushed  with  glory — 
.  I  love,  and  the  world  is  mine! 

Florence  Earle  Coates 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN* 

"In  our  lands  be  Beeres  and  Lyons  of  dyvers  colours  as  ye  redd, 
grene,  black,  and  white.  And  in  our  land  be  also  unicornes  and  these 
Unicornes  slee  many  Lyons.  .  .  .  Also  there  dare  no  man  make  a  lye 
in  our  lande,  for  if  he  dyde  he  sholde  incontynent  be  sleyn."  Mediaeval 
Epistle,  of  Pope  Prester  John. 

I 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Mogadore  we  plodded, 
Forty  singing  seamen  in  an  old  black  barque, 

•Copyright  1906,  Alfred  Noyes.     Copyright  1906,  1913,  F.  A.  Stokes  Company. 


160  NEW  VOICES 

And  we  landed  in  the  twilight  where  a  Polyphemus  nodded 

With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and  yellow  through  the 

dark! 

For  his  eye  was  growing  mellow, 
Rich  and  ripe  and  red  and  yellow, 
As  was  time,  since  old  Ulysses  made  him  bellow  in  the  dark ! 

Cho. — Since  Ulysses  bunged  his  eye  up  with  a  pine- torch  in  the  dark! 

II 
Were  they  mountains  in  the  gloaming  or  the  giant's  ugly  shoulders 

Just  beneath  the  rolling  eyeball,  with  its  bleared  and  vinous  glow, 
Red  and  yellow  o'er  the  purple  of  the  pines  among  the  boulders 
And  the  shaggy  horror  brooding  on  the  sullen  slopes  below, 
Were  they  pines  among  the  boulders 
Or  the  hair  upon  his  shoulders? 
We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we  didn't  know. 

Cho. — We  were  simple  singing  seamen,  so  of  course  we  couldn't  know. 

HI 
But  we  crossed  a  plain  of  poppies,  and  we  came  upon  a  fountain 

Not  of  water,  but  of  jewels,  like  a  spray  of  leaping  fire; 
And  behind  it,  in  an  emerald  glade,  beneath  a  golden  mountain 
There  stood  a  crystal  palace,  for  a  sailor  to  admire; 
For  a  troop  of  ghosts  came  round  us, 
Which  with  leaves  of  bay  they  crowned  us, 

Then  with  grog  they  well  nigh  drowned  us,  to  the  depth  of  our 
desire! 

Cho.— And  'twas  very  friendly  of  them,  as  a  sailor  can  admire! 

IV 

There  was  music  ah1  about  us,  we  were  growing  quite  forgetful 
We  were  only  singing  seamen  from  the  dirt  of  London-town, 
Though  the  nectar  that  we  swallowed  seemed  to  vanish  half  regretful 
As  if  we  wasn't  good  enough  to  take  such  vittles  down, 
When  we  saw  a  sudden  figure, 
Tall  and  black  as  any  nigger, 
Like  the  devil — only  bigger — drawing  near  us  with  a  frown! 

Cho. — Like  the  devil — but  much  bigger — and  he  wore  a  golden  crown! 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS        161 

v 
And  "What's  all  this?"  he  growls  at  us!   With  dignity  we  chaunted, 

"Forty  singing  seamen,  sir,  as  won't  be  put  upon!" 
"What?     Englishmen?"  he  cries,   "Well,  if  ye  don't  mind  being 

haunted, 

Faith,  you're  welcome  to  my  palace;  I'm  the  famous  Prester  John ! 
Will  ye  walk  into  my  palace? 
I  don't  bear  'ee  any  malice! 
One  and  all  ye  shall  be  welcome  in  the  halls  of  Prester  John!  " 

Cho. — So  we  walked  into  the  palace  and  the  halls  of  Prester  John! 


VI 

Now  the  door  was  one  great  diamond  and  the  hall  a  hollow  ruby — 

Big  as  Beachy  Head,  my  lads,  nay  bigger  by  a  half! 
And  I  sees  the  mate  wi'  mouth  agape,  a-staring  like  a  booby, 
And  the  skipper  close  behind  him,  with  his  tongue  out  like  a  calf! 
Now  the  way  to  take  it  rightly 
Was  to  walk  along  politely 
Just  as  if  you  didn't  notice — so  I  couldn't  help  but  laugh! 

Cho. — For  they  both  forgot  their  manners  and  the  crew  was  bound  to 
laugh! 

vn 
But  he  took  us  through  his  palace  and,  my  lads,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 

We  walked  into  an  opal  like  a  sunset-coloured  cloud — 
"My  dining-room,"  he  says,  and,  quick  as  light  we  saw  a  dinner 
Spread  before  us  by  the  fingers  of  a  hidden  fairy  crowd ; 
And  the  skipper,  swaying  gently 
After  dinner,  murmurs  faintly, 
"I  looks  to-wards  you,  Prester  John,  you've  done  us  very  proud!" 

Cho. — And  we  drank  his  health  with  honours,  for  he  done  us  very 
proud! 

vm 
Then  he  walks  us  to  his  garden  where  we  sees  a  feathered  demon 

Very  splendid  and  important  on  a  sort  of  spicy  tree! 
"That's  the  Phoenix,"  whispers  Prester,  "which  all  eddicated  seamen 


162  NEW  VOICES 

Knows  the  only  one  existent,  and  he's  waiting  for  to  flee! 

When  his  hundred  years  expire 

Then  he'll  set  hisself  afire 
And  another  from  his  ashes  rise  most  beautiful  to  see!" 

Cho. — With  wings  of  rose  and  emerald  most  beautiful  to  see! 

rx 
Then  he  says,  "In  yonder  forest  there's  a  little  silver  river, 

And  whosoever  drinks  of  it,  his  youth  shall  never  die! 
The  centuries  go  by,  but  Prester  John  endures  forever 

With  his  music  in  the  mountains  and  his  magic  on  the  sky! 
While  your  hearts  are  growing  colder, 
While  your  world  is  growing  older, 
There's  a  magic  in  the  distance,  where  the  sea-line  meets  the  sky." 

Cho. — It  shall  call  to  singing  seamen  till  the  fount  o'  song  is  dry! 

x 

So  we  thought  we'd  up  and  seek  it,  but  that  forest  fair  defied  us, — 

First  a  crimson  leopard  laughs  at  us  most  horrible  to  see, 
Then  a  sea-green  lion  came  and  sniffed  and  licked  his  chops  and  eyed 

us, 

While  a  red  and  yellow  unicorn  was  dancing  round  a  tree! 
We  was  trying  to  look  thinner 
Which  was  hard,  because  our  dinner 
Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  a  cat  o'  high  degree! 

Cho. — Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  the  whole  menarjeree! 

XI 

So  we  scuttled  from  that  forest  and  across  the  poppy  meadows 

Where  the  awful  shaggy  horror  brooded  o'er  us  in  the  dark! 
And  we  pushes  out  from  shore  again  a-jumping  at  our  shadows 
And  pulls  away  most  joyful  to  the  old  black  barque! 
And  home  again  we  plodded 
While  the  Polyphemus  nodded 

With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and  yellow  through  the 
dark. 

Cho  — Oh,  the  moon  above  the  mountains,  red  and  yellow  through  the 
dark! 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS       163 

XII 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  London-town  we  blundered, 

Forty  singing  seamen  as  was  puzzled  for  to  know 
If  the  visions  that  we  saw  was  caused  by — here  again  we  pondered — 
A  tipple  in  a  vision  forty  thousand  years  ago. 
Could  the  grog  we  dreamt  we  swallowed 
Make  us  dream  of  all  that  followed? 
We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we  didn't  know! 

Cho. — We  were  simple  singing  seamen,  so  of  course  we  could  not  know! 

Alfred  Noyes 


ASH  WEDNESDAY 

(After  hearing  a  lecture  on  the  origins  of  religion) 

Here  in  the  lonely  chapel  I  will  wait, 

Here  will  I  rest,  if  any  rest  may  be; 

So  fair  the  day  is,  and  the  hour  so  late, 

I  shall  have  few  to  share  the  blessed  calm  with  me. 

Calm  and  soft  light,  sweet  inarticulate  calls! 

One  shallow  dish  of  eerie  golden  fire 

By  molten  chains  above  the  altar  swinging, 

Draws  my  eyes  up  from  the  shadowed  stalls 

To  the  warm  chancel-dome; 

Crag-like  the  clustered  organs  loom, 

Yet  from  their  thunder-threatening  choir 

Flows  but  a  ghostly  singing — 

Half -human  voices  reaching  home 

In  infinite,  tremulous  surge  and  falls. 

Light  on  his  stops  and  keys, 

And  pallor  on  the  player's  face, 

Who,  listening  rapt,  with  finger-skill  to  seize 

The  pattern  of  a  mood's  elusive  grace, 

Captures  his  spirit  in  an  airy  lace 

Of  fading,  fading  harmonies. 

Oh,  let  your  coolness  soothe 

My  weariness,  frail  music,  where  you  keep 

Tryst  with  the  even-fall; 

Where  tone  by  tone  you  find  a  pathway  smooth 


164  NEW  VOICES 

To  yonder  gleaming  cross,  or  nearer  creep 
Along  the  bronzed  wall, 
Where  shade  by  shade  thro'  deeps  of  brown 
Comes  the  still  twilight  down. 

Wilt  thou  not  rest,  my  thought? 

Wouldst  thou  go  back  to  that  pain-breeding  room 

Whence  only  by  strong  wrenchings  thou  wert  brought? 

O  weary,  weary  questionings, 

Will  ye  pursue  me  to  the  altar  rail 

Where  my  old  faith  for  sanctuary  clings, 

And  back  again  my  heart  reluctant  hale 

Yonder,  where  crushed  against  the  cheerless  wall 

Tiptoe  I  glimpsed  the  tier  on  tier 

Of  faces  unserene  and  startled  eyes — 

Such  eyes  as  on  grim  surgeon-work  are  set, 

On  desperate  outmaneuverings  of  doom? 

Still  must  I  hear 

The  boding  voice  with  cautious  rise  and  fall 

Tracking  relentless  to  its  lair 

Each  fever-bred  progenitor  of  faith, 

Each  fugitive  ancestral  fear? 

Still  must  I  follow,  as  the  wraith 

Of  antique  awe  toward  a  wreck-making  beach 

Drives  derelict? 

Nay,  rest,  rest,  my  thought, 

Where  long-loved  sound  and  shadow  teach 

Quietness  to  conscience  overwrought. 

Harken!    The  choristers,  the  white-robed  priest 

Move  thro'  the  chapel  dim 

Sounding  of  warfare  and  the  victor's  palm, , 

Of  valiant  marchings,  of  the  feast 

Spread  for  the  pilgrim  in  a  haven'd  calm. 

How  on  the  first  lips  of  my  steadfast  race 

Sounded  that  battle  hymn, 

Quaint  heaven-vauntings,  with  God's  gauntlet  flung, 

To  me  bequeathed,  from  age  to  age, 

My  challenge  and  my  heritage! 

"The  Lord  is  in  His  holy  place"— 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS       165 

How  in  their  ears  the  herald  voice  has  rung! 

Now  will  I  make  bright  their  sword, 

Will  pilgrim  in  their  ancient  path, 

Will  haunt  the  temple  of  their  Lord; 

Truth  that  is  neither  variable  nor  hath 

Shadow  of  turning,  I  will  find 

In  the  wise  ploddings  of  their  faithful  mind; 

Of  finding  not,  as  in  this  frustrate  hour 

By  question  hounded,  waylaid  by  despair, 

Yet  in  these  uses  shall  I  know  His  power 

As  the  warm  flesh  by  breathing  knows  the  air. 

0  futile  comfort!    My  faith-hungry  heart 
Still  in  your  sweetness  tastes  a  poisonous  sour; 
Far  off,  far  off  I  quiver  'neath  the  smart 

Of  old  indignities  and  obscure  scorn 
Indelibly  on  man's  proud  spirit  laid, 
That  now  in  time's  ironic  masquerade 
Minister  healing  to  the  hurt  and  worn! 
What  are  those  streams  that  from  the  altar  pour 
Where  goat  and  ox  and  human  captive  bled 
To  feed  the  blood-lust  of  the  murderous  priest? 

1  cannot  see  where  Christ's  dear  love  is  shed, 
So  deep  the  insatiate  horrow  washes  red 
Flesh-stains  and  frenzy-sears  and  gore. 

Beneath  that  Cross,  whereon  His  hands  outspread, 

What  forest  shades  behold  what  shameful  rites 

Of  maidenhood  surrendered  to  the  beast 

In  obscene  worship  on  midsummer  nights! 

What  imperturbable  disguise 

Enwraps  these  organs  with  a  chaste  restraint 

To  chant  innocuous  hymns  and  litanies 

For  sinner  and  adoring  saint, 

Which  yet  inherit  like  an  old  blood-taint 

Some  naked  caperings  in  the  godliest  tune, — 

Goat-songs  and  jests  strong  with  the  breath  of  Pan, 

That  charmed  the  easy  cow-girl  and  her  man 

In  uncouth  tryst  beneath  a  scandalous  moon! 

Ah,  could  I  hearken  with  their  trust, 

Or  see  with  their  pure-seeing  eyes 


i66  NEW  VOICES 

Who  of  the  frame  of  these  dear  mysteries 

Were  not  too  wise! 

Why  cannot  I,  as  in  a  stronger  hour, 

Outface  the  horror  that  defeats  me  now? 

Have  I  not  reaped  complacent  the  rich  power 

That  harvest  from  this  praise  and  bowing  low? 

On  this  strong  music  have  I  mounted  up, 

At  yonder  rail  broke  bread,  and  shared  the  holy  cup, 

And  on  that  cross  have  hung,  and  felt  God's  pain 

Sorrowing,  sorrowing,  till  the  world  shall  end. 

Not  from  these  forms  my  questionings  come 

That  serving  truth  are  purified, 

But  from  the  truth  itself,  the  way,  the  goal, 

One  challenge  vast  that  strikes  faith  dumb — 

If  truth  be  fickle,  who  shall  be  our  guide? 

"Truth  that  is  neither  variable,  nor  hath 

Shadow  of  turning?"    Ah,  where  turns  she  not! 

Where  yesterday  she  stood, 

Now  the  horizon  empties — lo,  her  steps 

Where  yonder  scholar  woos,  are  hardly  cold, 

Yet  shall  he  find  her  never,  but  the  thought 

Mantling  within  him  like  her  blood 

Shall  from  his  eloquence  fade,  and  leave  his  words 

Flavor'd  with  vacant  quaintness  for  his  son. 

What  crafty  patience,  scholar,  hast  thou  used, 

Useless  ere  it  was  begun — 

What  headless  waste  of  wing, 

Beating  vainly  round  and  round! 

In  no  one  Babel  were  the  tongues  confused, 

But  they  who  handle  truth,  from  sound  to  sound 

Master  another  speech  continuously. 

Deaf  to  familiar  words,  our  callous  ear 

Will  quiver  to  the  edge  of  utterance  strange; 

When  truth  to  God's  truth-weary  sight  draws  near. 

Cannot  God  see  her  till  she  suffer  change? 

Must  ye  then  change,  my  vanished  youth, 

Home  customs  of  my  dreams? 

Change  and  farewell! 

Farewell,  your  lost  phantasmic  truth 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS        167 

That  will  not  constant  dwell, 

But  flees  the  passion  of  our  eyes 

And  leaves  no  hint  behind  her 

Whence  she  dawns  or  whither  dies, 

Or  if  she  live  at  all,  or  only  for  a  moment  seems. 

Here  tho'  I  only  dream  I  find  her, 

Here  will  I  watch  the  twilight  darken. 

Yonder  the  scholar's  voice  spins  on 

Mesh  upon  mesh  of  loveless  fate; 

Here  will  I  rest  while  truth  deserts  him  still. 

What  hath  she  left  thee,  Brother,  but  thy  voice? 

After  her,  have  thy  will, 

And  happy  be  thy  choice! 

Here  rather  will  I  rest,  and  harken 

Voices  longer  dead  but  longer  loved  than  thine. 

Yet  still  my  most  of  peace  is  more  unrest, 

As  one  who  plods  a  summer  road 

Feels  the  coolness  his  own  motion  stirs, 

But  when  he  stops  the  dead  heat  smothers  him. 

Here  in  this  calm  my  soul  is  weariest, 

Each  question  with  malicious  goad 

Pressing  the  choice  that  still  my  soul  defers 

To  visioned  hours  not  thus  eclipsed  and  dim, 

Lest  in  my  haste  I  deem 

That  truth's  invariable  part 

Is  her  eluding  of  man's  heart. 

Farewell,  calm  priest  who  pacest  slow 

After  the  stalwart-marching  choir! 

Have  men  thro'  thee  taught  God  their  dear  desire? 

Hath  God  thro'  thee  absolved  sin? 

What  is  thy  benediction,  if  I  go 

Sore  perplexed  and  wrought  within? 

Open  the  chapel  doors,  and  let 

Boisterous  music  play  us  out 

Toward  the  flaring  molten  west 

Whither  the  nerve-racked  day  is  set; 

Let  the  loud  world,  flooding  back, 

Gulf  us  in  its  hungry  rout; 

Rest?    What  part  have  we  in  rest? 


i68  NEW  VOICES 

Boy  with  the  happy  face  and  hurrying  feet, 

Who  with  thy  friendly  cap's  salute 

Sendest  bright  hail  across  the  college  street, 

If  thou  couldst  see  my  answering  lips,  how  mute, 

Kow  loth  to  take  thy  student  courtesy! 

What  truth  have  I  for  thee? 

Rather  thy  wisdom,  lad,  impart, 

Share  thy  gift  of  strength  with  me. 

Still  with  the  past  I  wrestle,  but  the  future  girds  thy  heart. 

Clutter  of  shriveled  yesterdays  that  clothe  us  like  a  shell, 

Thy  spirit  sloughs  their  bondage  off,  to  walk  newborn  and  free. 

All  things  the  human  heart  hath  learned — God,  heaven,  earth,  and 

hell— 

Thou  weighest  not  for  what  they  were,  but  what  they  still  may  Lc. 
Whether  the  scholar  delve  and  mine  for  faith-wreck  buried  deep. 
Or  the  priest  his  rules  and  holy  rites,  letter  and  spirit,  keep; 
Toil  or  trust  in  breathless  dust,  they  shall  starve  at  last  for  truth; 
Scholar  and  priest  shall  live  from  thee,  who  art  eternal  youth. 
Holier  if  thou  dost  tread  it,  every  path  the  prophets  trod; 
Clearer  where  thou  dost  worship,  rise  the  ancient  hymns  to  God; 
Not  by  the  priest  but  by  thy  prayers  are  altars  sanctified; 
Strong  with  new  love  where  thou  dost  kneel,  the  cross  whereon  Christ 

died. 

John  Erskine 

AROUND  THE  SUN* 

The  weazen  planet  Mercury, 

Whose  song  is  done, — 
Rash  heart  that  drew  too  near 

His  dazzling  lord  the  Sun! — 
Forgets  that  life  was  dear, 
So  shrivelled  now  and  sere 
The  goblin  planet  Mercury. 

But  Venus,  thou  mysterious, 

Enveiled  one, 
Fairest  of  lights  that  fleet 

Around  the  radiant  Sun, 

*From  "The  Retinue  and  Other  Poems,"  copyright,  1918,  by  E.  P.  Button  &  Co. 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS       169 

Do  not  thy  pulses  beat 
To  music  blithe  and  sweet, 
O  Venus,  veiled,  mysterious? 

And  Earth,  our  shadow-haunted  Earth, 

Hast  thou,  too,  won 
The  graces  of  a  star 

From  the  glory  of  the  Sun? 
Do  poets  dream  afar 
That  here  all  lustres  are, 
Upon  our  blind,  bewildered  Earth? 

We  dream  that  mighty  forms  on  Mars, 

With  wisdom  spun 
From  subtler  brain  than  man's, 

Are  hoarding  snow  and  sun, 
Wringing  a  few  more  spans 
Of  life,  fierce  artisans, 
From  their  deep-grooved,  worn  planet  Mars» 

But  thou,  colossal  Jupiter, 

World  just  begun, 
Wild  globe  of  golden  steam, 

Chief  nursling  of  the  Sun, 
Transcendest  human  dream, 
That  faints  before  the  gleam 
Of  thy  vast  splendor,  Jupiter. 

And  for  what  rare  delight, 

Of  woes  to  shun, 
Of  races  increate, 

New  lovers  of  the  Sun, 
Was  Saturn  ringed  with  great 
Rivers  illuminate, 
Ethereal  jewel  of  delight? 

Far  from  his  fellows,  Uranus 

Doth  lonely  run 
In  his  appointed  ways 

Around  the  sovereign  Sun, — 


170  NEW  VOICES 

Wide  journeys  that  amaze 
Our  weak  and  toiling  gaze, 
Searching  the  path  of  Uranus. 

But  on  the  awful  verge 

Of  voids  that  stun 
The  spirit,  Neptune  keeps 

The  frontier  of  the  Sun. 
Over  the  deeps  on  deeps 
He  glows,  a  torch  that  sweeps 
The  circle  of  that  shuddering  verge. 

On  each  bright  planet  waits 

Oblivion, 
Who  casts  beneath  her  feet 

Ashes  of  star  and  sun; 
But  when  all  ruby  heat 
Is  frost,  a  Heart  shall  beat, 
Where  God  within  the  darkness  waits. 

Katharine  Lee  Bate 


THE  FLIGHT 

O  Wild  Heart,  track  the  land's  perfume, 

Beach-roses  and  moor-heather! 
All  fragrances  of  herb  and  bloom 

Fail,  out  at  sea,  together. 
O  follow  where  aloft  find  room 

Lark-song  and  eagle-feather! 
All  ecstasies  of  throat  and  plume 

Melt,  high  on  yon  blue  weather. 

O  leave  on  sky  and  ocean  lost 

The  flight  creation  dareth; 
Take  wings  of  love,  that  mounts  the  most; 

Find  fame,  that  furthest  fareth! 
Thy  flight,  albeit  amid  her  host 

Thee,  too,  night  star-like  beareth, 
Flying,  thy  breath  on  heaven's  coast, 

The  infinite  outweareth. 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS  171 

n 
"Dead  o'er  us  roll  celestial  fires; 

Mute  stand  Earth's  ancient  beaches; 
Old  thoughts,  old  instincts,  old  desires, 

The  passing  hour  outreaches; 
The  soul  creative  never  tires — 

Evokes,  adores,  beseeches; 
And  that  heart  most  the  god  inspires 

Whom  most  its  wildness  teaches. 

"  For  I  will  course  through  falling  years, 

And  stars  and  cities  burning; 
And  I  will  march  through  dying  cheers 

Past  empires  unreturning; 
Ever  the  world-flame  reappears 

Where  mankind  power  is  earning, 
The  nations'  hopes,  the  people's  tears, 

One  with  the  wild  heart  yearning." 

George  Edward  Woodberry 


My  lady  ne'er  hath  given  herself  to  me 

In  mortal  ways,  nor  on  my  eyes  to  hold 

Her  image;  in  a  flying  marble  fold 
Of  Hellas  once  I  saw  eternity 
Flutter  about  her  form;  all  nature  she 

Inspirits,  but  round  her  being  there  is  rolled 

The  inextinguishable  beauty  old 
Of  the  far  shining  mountains  and  the  sea. 

Now  all  my  manhood  doth  enrich  her  shrine 

Where  first  the  young  boy  stored  all  hope,  all  fear. 

Fortune  and  fame  and  love  be  never  mine, 
Since,  seeking  those,  to  her  I  were  less  dear! 

Albeit  she  hides  herself  in  the  divine, 
Always  and  everywhere  I  feel  her  near. 

George  Edward  Woodberry 


172  NEW  VOICES 


PATH  FLOWER* 

A  red-cap  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 

A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane, 
As  I  the  April  pathway  trod 

Bound  west  for  Willesden. 

At  foot  each  tiny  blade  grew  big 

And  taller  stood  to  hear, 
And  every  leaf  on  every  twig 

Was  like  a  little  ear. 

As  I  too  paused,  and  both  ways  tried 
To  catch  the  rippling  rain, — 

So  still,  a  hare  kept  at  my  side 
His  tussock  of  disdain, — 

Behind  me  close  I  heard  a  step, 

A  soft  pit-pat  surprise, 
And  looking  round  my  eyes  fell  deep 

Into  sweet  other  eyes; 

The  eyes  like  wells,  where  sun  lies  too, 
So  clear  and  trustful  brown, 

Without  a  bubble  warning  you 
That  here's  a  place  to  drown. 

"How  many  miles?"    Her  broken  shoes 

Had  told  of  more  than  one. 
She  answered  like  a  dreaming  Muse, 

"I  came  from  Islington." 

"So  long  a  tramp?"    Two  gentle  nods 

Then  seemed  to  lift  a  wing, 
And  words  fell  soft  as  willow-buds, 

"I  came  to  find  the  Spring." 

A  timid  voice,  yet  not  afraid 

In  ways  so  sweet  to  roam, 
As  it  with  honey  bees  had  played 

And  could  no  more  go  home. 

*  Copyright,  1914,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


CERTAIN  CONSERVATIVE  POETS  173 

Her  home!    I  saw  the  human  lair, 

I  heard  the  hucksters  bawl, 
I  stifled  with  the  thickened  air 

Of  bickering  mart  and  stall. 

Without  a  tuppence  for  a  ride, 

Her  feet  had  set  her  free. 
Her  rags,  that  decency  defied, 

Seemed  new  with  liberty. 

But  she  was  frail.    Who  would  might  note 

The  trail  of  hungering 
That  for  an  hour  she  had  forgot 

In  wonder  of  the  Spring. 

So  shriven  by  her  joy  she  glowed 

It  seemed  a  sin  to  chat. 
(A  tea-shop  snuggled  off  the  road; 

Why  did  I  think  of  that?) 

Oh,  frail,  so  frail!    I  could  have  wept,— 

But  she  was  passing  on, 
And  I  but  muddled  "You'll  accept 

A  penny  for  a  bun?  " 

Then  up  her  little  throat  a  spray 

Of  rose  climbed  for  it  must; 
A  wilding  lost  till  safe  it  lay 

Hid  by  her  curls  of  rust; 

And  I  saw  modesties  at  fence 

With  pride  that  bore  no  name; 
So  old  it  was  she  knew  not  whence 

It  sudden  woke  and  came; 

But  that  which  shone  of  all  most  clear 

Was  startled,  sadder  thought 
That  I  should  give  her  back  the  fear 

Of  life  she  had  forgot. 


I74  NEW  VOICES 

And  I  blushed  for  the  world  we'd  made, 

Putting  God's  hand  aside, 
Till  for  the  want  of  sun  and  shade 

His  little  children  died; 

And  blushed  that  I  who  every  year 

With  Spring  went  up  and  down, 
Must  greet  a  soul  that  ached  for  her 

With  "penny  for  a  bun!" 

Struck  as  a  thief  in  holy  place 

Whose  sin  upon  him  cries, 

»  I  watched  the  flowers  leave  her  face, 

The  song  go  from  her  eyes. 

Then  she,  sweet  heart,  she  saw  my  rout, 

And  of  her  charity 
A  hand  of  grace  put  softly  out 

And  took  the  coin  from  me. 

A  red-cap  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 

A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane; 
But  I,  alone,  still  glooming  stood, 

And  April  plucked  in  vain; 

Till  living  words  rang  in  my  ears 

And  sudden  music  played: 
Out  of  such  sacred  thirst  as  hers 

The  world  shall  be  remade. 

Afar  she  turned  her  head  and  smiled 
As  might  have  smiled  the  Spring, 

And  humble  as  a  wondering  child 
I  watched  her  vanishing. 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan 


\ 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS 

An  old  rhetoric,  used  in  schoolrooms  about  twenty  years  ago, 
defines  a  figure  of  speech  as  "an  intentional  departure  from  the 
ordinary  form,  order,  construction  or  meaning  of  words,  intended 
to  give  emphasis,  clearness,  variety  or  beauty."    This  definition 
might  be  paraphrased  to  define  the  radical  poetry  of  the  moderns. 
Indeed  a  radical  poet,  like  his  poetry,  may  be  called  a  figure  of 
speech!  For  he  departs  intentionally  from  the  ordinary  form,i 
order,  construction  or  meaning  of  words  in  poetry,  intending  to  \ 
give  his  work  a  new  emphasis,  clearness,  variety  and  beauty. 

Conservatives  say  that  departures  of  this  kind  are  fatal  mis- 
takes. They  even  hint  that  radical  poets  do  not  depart  inten- 
tionally, but  perforce,  because  the  traditional  ways  of  English 
poetry  are  too  strait  for  their  errant  temperaments.  This  is 
easy  to  say,  but  difficult  to  prove.  We  shall  learn  too  little 
good  of  radicals  from  the  conversation  of  conservatives.  To 
learn  about  radical  poets  we  must  read  their  poems  and  ask  our- 
selves whether  we  can  find  the  new  "emphasis,  clearness,  variety 
and  beauty." 

Who,  then,  are  the  radical  poets?  As  defined  for  purposes  of 
this  discussion,_they_are  the  poets  whose  craftsmanship  is  new 
and  experimental.  They  may  be,  also,  poets  whose  ideas  on 
social  problems  are  radical.  Or  they  may  be  conservatives  in 
their  thought  of  life,  and  radicals  only  in  their  ways  of  making 
poems.  That  sometimes  happens.  Sometimes,  also,  it  happens 
that  poets  who  use  the  traditional  forms  of  English  verse  are  as 
radical  in  their  social  beliefs  as  their  brothers  who  write  free 
verse.  What  is  said  here  is  intended  to  apply  only  to  poets  who 
make  their  poems  in  the  new  or  radical  ways. 

It  is  impossible  to  discuss  them  all.  Many  of  them,  moreover, 
have  been  mentioned  in  other  chapters.  Amy  Lowell,  of  whom 
much  has  been  said  already,  is  an  arch-radical.  The  Imagists, 


1 76  NEW  VOICES 

whose  work  was  described  in  association  with  the  discussion  of 
images  and  symbols,  have  founded  their  important  radical  school. 
But  no  introduction  to  contemporary  poetry  would  be  complete 
without  comment  on  the  work  of  several  other  groups  of  radical 
poets. 

The  chief  poets  of  the  radical  movement  who  are  not  Imagists 
can  be  classified  together  as  oratorical,  humanitarian  radicals. 
[They  have  much  in  common.  Most  of  them  are  strong  social 
democrats  and  to  a  certain  extent  propagandists  in  their  poetry. 
They  all  seem  to  love  life — even  violently.  They  are  possessed 
of  strong  emotions  to  which  they  give  direct,  eloquent,  sometimes 
fulsome  expression.  To  a  certain  extent  they  are  iconoclasts. 
Their  images  and  symbols  are  often  vivid  and  impressive.  Their 
diction  is  sometimes  very  good  and  sometimes  very  bad.  Their 
rhythms  are  long,  undulating,  often  broken  and  uncertain, 
sometimes  very  tiresome,  at  their  best  sonorous  and  beautiful. 
But  all  too  often,  in  trying  to  create  poems  without  using  the 
traditional  patterns,  they  have  tried  to  create  poems  with  no 
perceptible  patterns.  When  they  have  tried  to  do  this  they  have 
usually  failed  to  make  poetry. 

The  artistic  ideal  of  the  humanitarian  radicals,  if  one  can 
guess  it  from  their  work,  is  the  ideal  of  oratory — a  man  pouring 
out  his  heart  before  his  fellows.  They  would  overwhelm  us  with 
torrents  of  emotion.  They  use  language  that  the  crowd  under- 
stands. They  are  as  eloquent  as  good  political  speakers.  But 
they  are  seldom  designers,  makers.  If  their  work  is  to  live,  it* 

P~ ust  be  by  virtue  of  the  truth  in  it,  by  virtue  of  the  value  of  the/ 
oughts  and  emotions  expressed  (which  value  will  be  tested  byl 
ne),  not  by  virtue  of  pattern  or  melody. 
The  following  lines  taken  from  Clement  Wood's  perfervid 
apostrophe  to  the  world  in  "  Spring  "  are  typical  of  much  of  the 
least  interesting  work  of  this  group: 

"Hey,  old  world,  old  lazy-bones,  wake  to  the  Spring-tune! 
The  music  of  the  spheres  is  quickened  to  a  jig, — 
Wobble  a  one-step  along  your  flashing  orbit,  with  the  moon  for  your 
light-tripping  partner!" 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS          177 

Such  lines  as  these,  without  melody,  without  coherent  beauty  of 
design,  tossed  off  at  random,  apparently,  attempt  a  crude  sub- 
limity, but  succeed  only  in  being  saucy.  They  slap  Life  jocosely 
on  the  shoulder  and  chuck  the  Universe  under  the  chin. 

It  is  only  fair  to  Mr.  Wood  to  say  that  he  has  done  much  better 
things  than  this.  He  has  written  interesting  poems  and  he  says 
some  things  worth  saying,  like  these  lines  from  "  A  Prayer:" 

"Keep  me  from  dream-ridden  indolence, 
That  softens  the  sinews  of  my  spirit. 

Send  me  forth,  adventuring, 

From  the  quick  mud  of  the  gutter 

To  the  clasp  of  the  thin  golden  fingers  of  the  stars. 

Let  me  will  life, 

And  its  freshening,  hearty  struggles." 

James  Oppenheim,  also  a  humanitarian  radical,  is  a  more 
mature  poet  than  Clement  Wood  and  his  work  has  been  before 
the  public  longer.  There  is  more  of  it  to  be  considered  and  it 
deserves  more  careful  consideration.  Mr.  Oppenheim  thinks. 
He  feels.  And  he  speaks.  As  he  himself  says,  in  the  poem 
called  "Before  Starting"  in  " Songs  For  The  New  Age," 

"It  was  as  if  myself  sat  down  beside  me, 

And  at  last  I  could  speak  out  to  my  dear  friend, 

And  tell  him,  day  after  day,  of  the  things  that  were  reshaping  me." 

In  this  calm  of  sincere  and  profound  soliloquy  Mr.  Oppenheim's 
best  poems  seem  to  have  been  written,  for  they  carry  the  at- 
mosphere of  calm  soliloquy  with  them.  It  sometimes  happens 
that  they  are  very  short.  Such  a  poem  is  "The  Runner  in  The 
Skies." 

"Who  is  the  runner  in  the  skies, 

With  her  blowing  scarf  of  stars, 

And  our  Earth  and  sun  hovering  like  bees  about  her  blossoming  heart? 

Her  feet  are  on  the  winds,  where  space  is  deep, 

Her  eyes  are  nebulous  and  veiled, 

She  hurries  through  the  night  to  a  far  lover." 


178  NEW  VOICES 

The  same  virtue  is  in  "The  Greatest,"  " Quick  As  a  Humming- 
bird," "No  End  of  Song,"  "Larkspur"  and  "Said  The  Sun." 

"Said  the  sun:  I  that  am  immense  and  shaggy  flame, 

Sustain  the  small  ones  yonder: 

But  what  do  they  do  when  their  half  of  the  Earth  is  turned  from  me? 

Poor  dark  ones,  denied  my  light. 

A  little  brain,  however,  was  on  that  other  half  of  the  planet  .  .  . 
And  so  there  were  lamps." 

Many  of  these  short  poems  reveal  Mr.  Oppenheim  at  his  best. 
They  are  concise,  thoughtful,  imaginative,  and  have  the  quiet 
charm  of  meditative  speech.  They  make  places  for  themselves 
in  the  minds  of  readers,  and  remain. 

But  Mr.  Oppenheim  does  not  always  seem  to  be  chatting 
quietly  with  himself  about  the  things  that  are  reshaping 
him.  Often  he  is  so  vociferous  that  it  is  easy  to  picture  him 
pacing  a  platform,  talking  with  undeniable  vigor  to  himself  or 
to  the  multitude  and  making  himself  heard.  In  "  Civilization  " 
he  is  far  more  the  orator  than  the  poet.  He  is  talking  loud  and 
scornfully. 

"Civilization! 

Everybody  kind  and  gentle,  and  men  giving  up  their  seats  in  the  car 

for  the  women  .  .  . 
What  an  ideal! 
How  bracing! 

Is  this  what  we  want? 

Have  so  many  generations  lived  and  died  for  this? 

There  have  been  Crusades,  persecutions,  wars,  and  majestic  arts, 

There  have  been  murders  and  passions  and  horrors  since  man  was  in 

the  jungle  .  .  . 
What  was  this  blood-toll  for? 
Just  so  that  everybody  could  have  a  full  belly  and  be  well-mannered?  " 

This  is  very  interesting,  but  is  it  poetry?  Here  we  have  stimu- 
lating thought  and  honest  feeling  put  into  lengths  of  exclama- 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS  179 

tory  language.  But  that  is  about  all.  We  find  no  pattern_jn 
rhythm,  imagery,  or  symbolism.  We  are  glad  of  the  stimulating 
thoughT  and  liuiiest  emOTion.  They  are  refreshing  and  much 
better  for  us  than  an  aesthetic  composition  in  which  specious 
thoughts  and  shallow  feelings  are  masked.  Such  lines  may  servel 
to  arouse  us  from  intellectual  and  spiritual  lethargy.  But  the' 
chances  are  tKaTwe •  shall  neve'r~f  epeat  them  to  ourselves  fui  the 
oy  of  repeating  them.  We  shall  not  cherish  and  remember 


lines  like  these  as  we  snould  cherish  and  remember  poems  by 
rilliam  Vaughn  Moody,  Vachel  Lindsay  or  Robert  Frost, 
hey  will  not  make  their  own  places  and  abide  with  us  as  Mr. 
Oppenheim 's  best  poems  will. 

By  far  the  finest  piece  of  literature  that  James  Oppenheim  has 
produced  is  a  dramatic  poem  called  "  Night.  jr~~~AtTright  a  priest, 
a  scientist  and  a  poet  are  met  together  under  the  stars  and  they 
confer  together,  telling  one  another  what  they  think  of  the 
universe  and  all  that  therein  is.  Then  a  woman  enters,  carrying 
a  burden,  her  dead  baby  in  her  arms,  and  seeks  of  each  of  them 
in  turn  the  answer  to  the  riddle  of  pain  and  sorrow.  She  is  not 
satisfied  with  any  answer  and  turns  away  from  them  all  to  defy 
the  Power  that  lets  such  things  be.  Then  comes  the  man, 
her  husband,  and,  because  he  needs  her,  she  turns  away  from 
death  and  goes  back  to  life  with  him.  Her  maternal  pity  takes 
her  mate  to  be  her  child.  The  priest  says,  "Forgive  these 
children,  Lord  God!"  The  scientist  says,  " Ignorance  is  indeed 
bliss!"  The  poet  says: 

"The  secret  of  life? 

He  gives  it  to  her,  she  gives  it  to  him  .  .  . 

But  who  shall  tell  of  it?    Who  shall  know  it?" 

That  is  the  story,  a  very  simple  story.  The  beauty  of  the  poem 
is  in  the  fact  that  it  is  an  admirable  piece  of  sympathetic  imagi- 
nation. Mr.  Oppenheim  knows  the  thought  of  the  priest,  the 
scientist  and  the  poet;  he  has  shown  very  clearly  how  these  three 
typical  personalities  see  life.  He  has  known  the  emotions  of  the 


i8o  NEW  VOICES 

man.  He  has  fathomed  the  sorrow  of  the  woman.  He  has  faith- 
fully revealed  truths  that  can  be  considered  universal. 

" Night  "  is  very  well  written.  The  rhythm  of  the  speeches  is 
dignified.  And  the  oratorical  style,  not  well  adapted,  as  a  rule, 
to  the  uses  of  subjective,  lyrical  poetry,  is  quite  appropriate 
in  this  dramatic  poem  in  which  are  several  speakers,  in  which 
each  speaker  is  a  type,  a  part  of  a  pattern  worked  out  in  ideas. 
The  language  is  warm  and  rich,  simple  and  human  and  suggestive 
of  subtle  meanings.  The  priest's  first  question  and  the  woman's 
answer  are  masterly.  Says  the  priest,  "  Your  child  has  died.  .  ." 
The  woman  answers,  "My  baby  is  dead.  .  ."  The  priest  uses 
the  general  and  impersonal  word, "  child."  The  woman  uses  the 
personal  and  more  intimate  word,  "baby."  The  priest  refers  to 
an  event  that  has  taken  place,  "has  died."  The  woman  uses 
the  present  tense  of  her  own  sorrow,  "is  dead."  Mr.  Oppen- 
heim  ought  to  write  more  poems  of  this  kind. 

Probably  one  of  the  greatest  of  radical  poets  is  Carl  Sandburg. 
His  manner  is  oratorical,  like  Mr.  Oppenheim's,  but  he  varies  his 
rhythms  with  greater  cunning  and  he  is  a  greater  artist.  Some 
of  his  poems  are  very  shapely  in  their  clean-cut  power  of  design. 
At  their  best  his  poems  make  one  think  of  Rodin.  They  are  the 
words  that  correspond  to  Rodin's  lines.  And  in  all  of  Mr. 
Sandburg's  work  we  are  conscious  of  a  big,  kind  personality, 
a  man  speaking,  a  person  present  in  language.  He  is  the  man 
who  talks.  In  reading  his  books  we  are  conscious  of  faith  and 
virility,  wise  scorn,  buoyant  anger  and  great  tenderness.  Even 
those  who  read  Mr.  Sandburg's  work  without  agreement,  with- 
out much  sympathy,  are  likely  to  say,  "Well,  anyway,  he  is  a 
man."  So  true  is  this  that  a  cautious  critic  is  likely  to  ask  him- 
self, "Do  I  like  this  because  it  is  poetry  or  because  a  manly 
personality  is  speaking?"  Sometimes  it  is  wise  to  ask  this  ques- 
tion. One  may  well  ask  whether  the  eloquent  lines  called  "I 
Am  The  People,  The  Mob,"  are  the  lines  of  a  poem  or 
the  lines  of  an  impassioned  speech  on  the  destiny  of  the 
masses. 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS  181 

"I  am  the  people — the  mob — the  crowd — the  mass. 

Do  you  know  that  all  the  great  work  of  the  world  is  done  through  me? 

]  am  the  workingman,  the  inventor,  the  maker  of  the  world's  food  and 

clothes. 
I  am  the  audience  that  witnesses  history." 

This  is  rather  more  eloquent  than  poetic.  It  has  value  as  an 
expression  of  personality.  It  has  a  rhythm  of  staccato  speech. 
But  it  is  plain  statement,  after  all  It  lacks  the  lifting  power 
of  poetry^ Nor  do  the  lines  about  Chicago,  the  harangue  "  To 
A  Contemporary  Bunkshooter,"  and  the  curse  spoken  against 
Becker  seem  to  be  poems,  although  poetic  phrases  are  plentiful 
in  them  and  although,  in  a  certain  sense,  they  do  vividly  share 
life. 

But  this  only  tells  a  part  of  the  story.    Often,  very  often  in-  1 
deed,  Mr.Sandburg  is  a  poe.t  of  rhythm,  symbol,  and  magical  J 
heslgn.    ATpoe-t  he  was  when  he  wrote  "Uplands  in  May," 
TrjSn  Kubelik,"  "Sheep,"  "Cool  Tombs,"  "Back  Yard,"  "The 
Harbor,"  "River  Roads,"  "Early  Moon,"  "Have  Me,"  "Hand- 
fuls,"  "Bringers"  and  many  other  poems. 

.    More  than  any  other_poet  who  has  found  a  public,  Mr.  Sand-  / 
[burg  uses  the  speech  of  the  common~people  of  America,  with  its ' 
[colloquialisms  and  its  slang.    In  "Wilderness"  is  the  following 
paragraph. 

"O,  I  got  a  zoo,  I  got  a  menagerie,  inside  my  ribs,  under  my  bony 
head,  under  my  red-valve  heart — and  I  got  something  else:  it  is  a 
man-child  heart,  a  woman-child  heart :  it  is  a  father  and  mother  and 
lover:  it  came  from  God-Knows-Where:  it  is  going  to  God-Knows- 
Where — For  I  am  the  keeper  of  the  zoo:  I  say  yes  and  no:  I  sing 
and  kill  and  work:  I  am  a  pal  of  the  world:  I  came  from  the 
wilderness." 

Only  the  common  people  and  children  sometimes  use  "got  '  in 
that  way.  It  is  the  familiar  folk  speech  to  which  words  like 
"zoo"  and  "pal"  belong.  Such  words  would  not  be  taboo  for 
conservative  poets  in  narrative  or  dramatic  poetry,  but  no  con- 


182  NEW  VOICES 

servative  poet  would  take  them  upon  his  own  lips  in  his  own 
speech  or  song.  Similarly  Mr.  Sandburg,  in  his  poem  about 
those  who  "go  forth  before  daybreak"  (strangely  called  a 
"psalm"),  says  that  the  policeman  buys  shoes  "slow  and  care- 
ful." The  use  of  the  adjective  for  the  adverb  is  another  part  of 
the  homely  talk  of  the  common  people.  Sometimes  one  wonders 
why  Mr.  Sandburg  uses  these  colloquialisms.  As  part  of  the 
talk  of  a  character  in  a  story,  they  would  be  piquant  and  flavor- 
ous.  But  why  should  Mr.  Sandburg,  the  poet,  use  them  when 
he  himself  is  speaking  to  his  readers?  If  one  might  hazard 
a  guess,  it  is  simply  because  he  likes  the  folk  speech,  the  plain 
(man's  way  of  saying  things,  so  much  that  he  would  rather  be 
picturesque  and  colloquial  than  keep  the  venerable  beauty  of 
pure  English. 

Mr.  Sandburg  has  written  poems  of  several  kinds,  as  we  have 
seen  already,  oratorical  poems,  picture  poems,  brief  lyrical 
poems.  His  work  is  growing  in  power  and  in  beauty^  AJJirsJt 
j  much  of  it  was  loud  and  brash.  Now  much  of  it  is  quaint  and 
'full  of  gentleness.  And  best  of  all,  it  is  close  to  the  heart  of  the 
folk,  whence  the  best  poetry  comes. 

Almost  as  much  as  radicals  differ  from  conservatives  do  radi- 
cals like  T.  S.  Eliot  and  Ezra  Pound  differ  from  radicals  like 
Carl  Sandburg  and  James  Oppenheim.  Their  emotions  are  not 
redundant,  but  spare.  Their  style  is  not  oratorical.  Their  voices 
are  not  orotund,  but  sly,  insinuating,  satirical,  and,  occasionally, 
shrill.  They  are  poets  of  the  world  and  very  far  from  the  folk. 
They  are  undeniably  alarmingly  clever.  Notice  these  lines  from 
"The  Love  Song  of  J.  Alfred  Prufrock"  by  T.  S.  Eliot: 

"Let  us  go  then,  you  and  I, 

When  the  evening  is  spread  out  against  the  sky 

Like  a  patient  etherized  upon  a  table." 

The  comparison  would  never  come  into  the  mind  of  a  stupid  man, 
of  an  unsophisticated  man.  It  is  clever,  also,  to  speak  of  the 
"  damp  souls  of  housemaids. "  It  is  clever  to  say  that  the  laughter 
of  a  certain  Mr.  Apollinax  "was  submarine  and  profound." 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS  183 

It  is  such  cleverness  that  one  finds  in  Mr.  Eliot's  work.  It  is 
for  such  things,  as  much  as  for  anything  else,  that  his  admirers 
praise  him.  His  sketches  of  personality  are  dry  and  hard. 
His  comment  on  the  complex  lives  of  worldlings  is  all  enter- 
taining. But  a  poet  must  be  more  than  clever  and  entertaining 
to  merit  the  attention  of  many  readers.  A  brittle  aestheticism 
is  not  enough. 

As  for  Mr.  Pound,  it  is  difficult  to  write  about  him.  He  is 
so  clever  that  one  mentions  him  with  trepidation,  knowing  how 
much  amused  he  would  be  at  the  wrong  thing  said.  The  truth 
of  the  matter  is  that  Mr.  Pound  is  too  clever  to  be  a  poet.  He 
ought  to  spend  his  time  in  discovering  geniuses  and  explain- 
ing talent  and  genius  to  a  less  clever  world.  For  whether  one 
agrees  with  him  or  not,  he  is  frequently  interesting  as  a 
critic. 

Now  in  Mr.  Pound's  poetry,  as  in  his  prose  criticism,  we  find  a 
very  keen-edged  intellect  cutting  and  slashing  at  stupidity. 
In  criticism  this  may  be  all  very  well.  But  in  poetry  it  is  irritat- 
ing. A  poem  subtly  charged  with  conscious  superiority  will 
hardly  give  pleasure  to  many  readers,  because  they  themselves 
never  have  cause  to  know  what  conscious  superiority  is  like, 
and  therefore  can  not  share  the  mood.  Very  likely  Mr.  Pound 
does  not  expect  nor  even  wish  his  poems  to  give  pleasure  to 
many  readers.  He  would  prefer,  probably,  to  please  a  few  hun- 
dred carefully  selected  intellects.  Or  perhaps  he  would  please 
only  himself  and  is  content  to  amuse  the  dull  world.  Most  of 
his  poems  are  no  better  than  clever.  Take  these  lines,  for  ex- 
ample, from  4< Further  Instructions:" 

"You  are  very  idle,  my  songs; 
I  fear  you  will  come  to  a  bad  end. 

You  stand  about  the  streets.    You  loiter  at  the  corners  and  busstops, 

You  do  next  to  nothing  at  all. 

You  do  not  even  express  our  inner  nobility; 

You  will  come  to  a  very  bad  end. 

*  *  *  * 


184  NEW  VOICES 

But  you,  newest  song  of  the  lot, 

You  are  not  old  enough  to  have  done  much  mischief. 

I  will  get  you  a  green  coat  out  of  China 

With  dragons  worked  upon  it. 

I  will  get  you  the  scarlet  silk  trousers 

From  the  statue  of  the  infant  Christ  at  Santa  Maria  Novella; 

Lest  they  say  we  are  lacking  in  taste, 

Or  that  there  is  no  caste  in  this  family." 

The  ordinary  person  is  bewildered  by  lines  like  these.  It  dis- 
turbs him  to  have  a  poet  self-consciously  address  his  poems  and 
make  fun  of  his  readers  at  the  same  time.  Louis  Untermeyer, 
our  shrewd  American  critic,  has  made  a  series  of  amusing  paro- 
dies of  Mr.  Pound's  style  which  the  ordinary  person  will  enjoy 
rather  more  than  the  originals.  They  are  included  in  his  book 
of  parodies  " — And  Other  Poets,"  a  book  which  will  be  a 
delight  to  students  of  the  style  of  contemporary  poets. 

Now  if  all  his  works  were  of  this  kind,  it  would  not  be  worth 
while  to  discuss  Mr.  Pound  as  a  poet  at  all.  Sometimes  he  is 
guilty  of  a  catcall  from  the  top  gallery.  But  there  are  serene 
musical  interludes.  His  translations  from  the  Chinese  are  inter- 
esting. His  "Ballad  For  Gloom"  has  a  certain  gallantry  which 
the  brave,  who  have  known  bitterness,  will  understand  and  feel. 
The  rhythm  of  it  is  strong,  the  feeling  is  strong.  His  "  Ballad 
of  The  Goodly  Fere"  is  one  of  the  finest  poems  about  Christ  that 
contemporary  poets  have  given  us.  In  this  poem  Christ  is  the 
brave  man,  the  hero. 

"A  master  of  men  was  the  Goodly  Fere, 
A  mate  of  the  wind  and  sea. 
If  they  think  they  ha'  slain  our  Goodly  Fere 
They  are  fools  eternally. 

"  I  ha'  seen  him  eat  o'  the  honey-comb 
Sin'  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree." 

Very  beautiful,  also,  are  some  of  the  lines  in  his  "Dance 
Figure,"  a  poem  written  "For  the  Marriage  in  Cana  of  Galilee." 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS  185 

"Dark-eyed, 

0  woman  of  my  dreams, 
Ivory  sandaled, 

There  is  none  like  thee  among  the  dancers, 
None  with  swift  feet. 

1  have  not  found  thee  in  the  tents, 
In  the  broken  darkness. 

I  have  not  found  thee  at  the  well-head 
Among  the  women  with  pitchers. 

Thine  arms  are  as  young  saplings  under  the  bark; 
Thy  face  as  a  river  with  lights." 

The  scriptural  style  of  these  lines  is  worthy  of  note.  If  only  Mr. 
Pound  were  less  clever,  he  might  be  a  very  good  poet. 

Alfred  Kreymborg,  the  leader  in  the  group  of  poets  generally 
called  "The  Others"  from  the  name  of  their  magazine  and  their 
anthology,  is  a  poet  of  another  kind.  He  is  a  whimsical  radical, 
the  leader  of  the  whimsical  radicals.  His  poems  are  like  the 
little  oddments  one  finds  while  rummaging  in  an  old  curiosity 
shop.  Some  of  them  are  ridiculous  and  valueless,  some  quaint 
and  amusing ;  a  few  are  beautiful.  His  poorer  poems  are  shadowy 
and  trivial.  They  lack  symmetry  of  design,  charm  of  rhythm 
and  vitality  of  emotion.  But  his  best  poems  make  up  for  cer- 
tain deficiencies  of  rhythm  and  design  and  rather  slight  emotion 
—the  most  serious  lack — by  their  charm  of  really  delicate  fancy 
and  by  their  quaint  symbolism.  Their  beauty  is  minute  and 
fragile,  like  the  beauty  of  a  miniature.  Some  of  the  best  of  his 
poems  are  "Idealists,"  "Old  Manuscript,"  "Earth  Wisdom," 
and  "Improvisation." 

Mr.  Kreymborg  is  the  author  of  "  Six  Plays  For  Poet  Mimes," 
six  entertaining  little  dramas  in  free  verse.  They  have  been 
played  with  success  at  a  number  of  the  "Little  Theaters"  and 
by  groups  of  students.  Each  of  these  plays,  however,  may  be 
considered  as  a  pattern  in  which  the  words  are  only  an  outline. 
Or  perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say  that  the  words  are  intended 
to  be  a  running  comment  on  the  action.  Certainly  the  words  are 


i86  NEW  VOICES 

not  complete  alone,  without  action.  Very  likely  that  should 
augur  well  for  them  as  plays.  In  much  that  is  called  "  poetic 
drama"  the  words  are  decided^  in  the  way  of  all  that  happens  on 
the  stage;  they  hinder  and  retard  the  action.  In  Mr.  Kreym- 
borg's  plays  that  could  not  be  true.  For  to  the  reader  they 
seem  to  need  the  action  that  they  may  fulfill  themselves. 

The  same  thing  might  be  said  of  another  play  by  another  poet, 
"Grotesques:  A  Decoration  In  Black  And  White,"  by  Cloyd 
Head.  This  is  a  more  serious  work  than  the  plays  of  Alfred 
Kreymborg,  and  of  greater  importance.  But  it  is  a  poetic 
drama  to  be  played  rather  than  a  dramatic  poem  to  be  read. 
Mr.  Head  has  been  merciless  and  unflinching  in  cutting  out 
every  bit  of  language  that  is  unnecessary  in  the  play  when  it  is 
acted.  Perhaps  that  is  why  "Grotesques"  won  the  enthusiastic 
praise  of  Harriet  Monroe  and  of  many  competent  critics  when 
it  was  first  played  in  Chicago  at  the  Chicago  Little  Theater. 
But  it  should  not  be  underestimated  as  a  poem.  Grim  in  its 
philosophy,  an  ironical  comment  on  human  achievement  and 
destiny,  it  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  radical  poems  of  the 
period.  But  it  is  too  long  to  be  reprinted  as  a  whole  and  it  is 
difficult  to  do  it  justice  by  quotation,  since  it  is,  as  has  been 
said,  a  poetic  play,  a  conventionalized  "decoration"  to  be  seen 
with  the  eyes  and  heard  with  the  ears  at  the  same  time.  In  it 
Mr.  Head  has  been  a  scrupulous  and  uncompromising  artist. 

"Three  Travellers  Watch  a  Sunrise"  by  Wallace  Stevens  is 
another  interesting  radical  play.  It  is  better  work  than  his 
short  grotesques. 

Of  the  radical  poets  in  general  it  may  be  said  that  most  of 
their  work  will  die,  and  die  very  soon.  But  that  may  be  said 
just  as  truly  of  conservative  poets.  Nearly  all  of  the  work  of 
nearly  all  poets  dies,  and  dies  soon.  And  it  is  never  possible 
for  any  generation  to  know  which  of  its  achievements  will  en- 
dure and  become  immortal.  Contemporary  criticism  is  always 
a  mere  preliminary  test  before  the  final  examination,  a  straw 
vote  taken  before  election  day. 


v 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS          187 

But  the  history  of  the  arts  and  of  mankind  seems  to  show  that 
often  it  is  the  great  radicals  of  one  generation  who  survive  and 
become  types  of  the  achievement  of  that  generation,  and  are 
considered  conservative  by  succeeding  generations.  Therefore 
radical  tendencies  should  be  studied  carefully.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary, of  course,  to  ponder  the  inanities  and  insanities  of  all 
seekers  after  novelty  and  sensationalism,  any  more  than  it  is 
necessary  to  give  thoughtful  consideration  to  poems  that  are, 
obviously,  feeble  imitations  of  Tennyson  and  Keats.  The  great- 
est scholars  can  not  understand  the  chatter  of  daws,  the  shriek- 
ing of  jays.  But  wherever  a  radical  poet  can  be  found  who  is 
giving  something  good  out  of  himself  and  giving  it  sincerely, 
he  should  have  as  good  a  hearing  as  conservatives  are  certain 
to  get,  even  if  his  way  of  giving  expression  to  his  feelings  be 
a  new  way  with  which  we  are  not  familiar.  Perhaps  he  should 
have  a  rather  better  hearing  than  the  conservative  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  brings  something  new  which  is  not  generally 
understood.  Our  fair-minded  readers  and  just  critics  should 
be  sure  that  they  know  what  the  new  poet  is  trying  to  do  before 
they  respond  to  it  with  harsh  censure.  For  radical  poets  are 
poets  who  are  making  experiments  that  may  lead  to  new  ad- 
ventures in  beauty  for  us  all. 

For  other  reasons  we  should  be  generous  with  the  strongest 
radical  poets.  Much  poetry  that  has  no  value  for  posterity 
may  have  value  for  us  in  showing  us  the  countenance  of  our  own 
generation  as  in  a  mirror.  Much  that  is  lax,  errant,  wilful, 
slovenly,  in  the  thought  and  feeling  of  this  generation,  will  be 
shown  in  the  work  of  our  radical  poets,  just  as  much  that  is 
smug,  complacent,  drab,  commonplace,  will  be  reflected  in  the 
work  of  conservatives.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  between  the  two 
extremes  of  conservatism  and  radicalism  that  we  usually  find 
the  genius  of  beauty,  the  genius  of  truth  and  the  genius  of  holi- 
ness. 


188  NEW  VOICES 


FROM  "NIGHT" 

A  Priest,  A  Poet,  A  Scientist. 
Hilltop,  in  October:  the  stars  shining. 

[The  Priest  kneels;  the  Scientist  looks  at  the  heavens  through  a 
telescope;  the  Poet  writes  in  a  little  note-book.] 

THE  PRIEST 

When  I  consider  Thy  heavens,  the  work  of  Thy  fingers,  the  moon  and 

the  stars,  which  Thou  hast  ordained; 
What  is  man,  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him, 
And  the  son  of  man,  that  Thou  visitest  him? 

THE  SCIENTIST 

Algol  which  is  dim,  becomes  again  a  star  of  the  second  magnitude. 

THE  POET 

My  beloved  is  far  from  this  hilltop,  where  the  firs  breathe  heavily,  and 

the  needles  fall; 

But  from  the  middle  of  the  sea 
She,  too,  gazes  on  the  lustrous  stars  of  calm  October,  and  in  her 

heart 

She  stands  with  me  beneath  these  heavens — daintily  blows 
Breath  of  the  sighing  pines,  and  from  the  loaded  and  bowed-down 

orchards  and  from  the  fields 
With  smokes  of  the  valley,  peace  steps  up  on  this  hill. 

THE  PRIEST 

Thou  art  the  Shepherd  that  strides  down  the  Milky  Way; 

Thou  art  the  Lord,  our  God:  glorified  be  Thy  name  and  Thy  works. 

I  see  Thee  with  Thy  staff  driving  the  star-sheep  to  the  fold  of  dawn. 

THE  SCIENTIST 

The  Spiral  Nebula  in  Ursa  Major,  that  forever  turns 

Slowly  like  a  flaming  pin-wheel  .  .  .  thus  are  worlds  born; 

Thus  was  the  sun  and  all  the  planets  a  handful  of  million  years 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS  189 

THE  POET 

She  is  far  from  me  ...  but  in  the  cradle  of  the  sea 
Sleepless  she  rocks,  calling  her  beloved:  he  heeds  her  call: 
On  this  hilltop  he  picks  the  North  Star  for  his  beacon  .  .  . 
For  by  that  star  the  sailors  steer,  and  beneath  that  star 
She  and  I  are  one  in  the  gaze  of  the  heavens. 

THE  PRIEST 

[Slowly  rising  and  turning  to  the  others] 

Let  us  glorify  the  Creator  of  this  magnificence  of  infinite  Night, 
His  footstool  is  the  Earth,  and  we  are  but  the  sheep  of  this  Shepherd. 

THE   SCIENTIST 

Thus  shall  we  only  glorify  ourselves, 

That  of  this  energy  that  rolls  and  drives  in  suns  and  planets 

Are  but  the  split-off  forces  with  cunning  brains, 

And  questioning  consciousness  .  .  .  Pray  if  you  must — 

Only  your  own  ears  hear  you,  and  only  the  heart  in  your  treast 

Responds  to  the  grandiose  emotion.  .  .  .  See  yonder  star? 

That  is  the  great  Aldebaran,  great  in  the  night, 

Needing  a  whole  sky,  as  a  vat  and  a  reservoir,  which  he  fills  with  his 

flame.  .  . 

But  no  astronomer  with  his  eye  to  his  lenses 
Has  seen  ears  on  the  monster. 

THE  PRIEST 

Thou  that  hast  never  seen  an  atom,  nor  the  ether  thou  pratest  of, 
Thou  that  hast  never  seen  the  consciousness  of  man, 
What  knowest  thou  of  the  invisible  arms  about  this  sky, 
And  the  Father  that  leans  above  us? 

THE  POET 

We  need  know  nothing  of  any  Father 

When  the  grasses  themselves,  withering  in  October,  stand  up  and  sing 

their  own  dirges  hi  the  great  west  wind, 
And  every  pine  is  like  a  winter  lodging  house  where  the  needles  may 

remember  the  greenness  of  the  world, 
And  the  great  shadow  is  jagged  at  its  top  with  stars, 


NEW  VOICES 

And  the  heart  of  man  is  as  a  wanderer  looking  for  the  light  in  a  win- 
dow, 
And  the  kiss  and  warm  joy  of  his  beloved. 

THE  PRIEST 

Man  of  Song  and  Man  of  Science, 

Truly  you  are  as  people  on  the  outside  of  a  house, 

And  one  of  you  only  sees  that  it  is  made  of  stone,  and  its  windows  of 

glass,  and  that  fire  burns  in  the  hearth, 

And  the  other  of  you  sees  that  the  house  is  beautiful  and  very  human, 
But  I  have  gone  inside  the  house, 
And  I  live  with  the  host  in  that  house 
And  have  broken  bread  with  him,  and  drunk  his  wine, 
And  seen  the  transfiguration  that  love  and  awe  make  in  the  brain.  .  .  . 
For  that  house  is  the  world,  and  the  Lord  is  my  host  and  my  father: 
It  is  my  father's  house. 

THE  SCIENTIST 

He  that  has  gone  mad  and  insane  may  call  himself  a  king, 

And  behold  himself  in  a  king's  palace,  with  feasting,  and  dancing 

women,  and  with  captains, 
And  none  can  convince  him  that  he  is  mad, 
Slave  of  hallucination.  .  .  . 

We  that  weigh  the  atom  and  weigh  a  world  in  the  night,  and  we 
Who  probe  down  into  the  brain,  and  see  how  desire  discolors  reality, 
And  we  that  see  how  chemical  energy  changes  and  transforms  the 

molecule, 

So  that  one  thing  and  another  changes  and  so  man  arises — 
With  neither  microscope,  nor  telescope,  nor  spectroscope,  nor  finest 

violet  ray 
Have  we  found  any  Father  lurking  in  the  intricate  unreasonable  drive 

of  things 
And  the  strange  chances  of  nature. 

THE  POET 

O  Priest,  is  it  not  enough  that  the  world  and  a  Woman  are  very 

beautiful, 
And  that  the  works  and  tragic  lives  of  men  are  terribly  glorious? 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS          191 

There  is  a  dance  of  miracles,  of  miracles  holding  hands  in  a  chain 
around  the  Earth  and  out  through  space  to  the  moon,  and  to  the 
stars,  and  beyond  the  stars, 

And  to  behold  this  dance  is  enough ; 

So  much  laughter,  and  secret  looking,  and  glimpses  of  wonder,  and 
dreams  of  terror.  .  .  . 

It  is  enough!  it  is  enough! 

THE  PRIEST 

Enough?    I  see  what  is  enough! 

Machinery  is  enough  for  a  Scientist, 

And  Beauty  is  enough  for  a  Poet; 

But  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  women,  and  in  the  thirsty  hearts  of  little 

children 

There  is  a  hunger,  and  there  is  an  unappeasable  longing, 
For  a  Father  and  for  the  love  of  a  Father  .  .  . 
For  the  root  of  a  soul  is  mystery, 
And  the  Night  is  mystery, 

And  in  that  mystery  men  would  open  inward  into  Eternity, 
And  know  love,  the  Lord. 
Blessed  be  his  works,  and  his  angels,  and  his  sons  crowned  with  his 

glory! 

[.4  pause.    The  Woman  with  a  burden  in  her  arms  comes  in  slowly.] 

James  Oppenheim 

CLAY  HILLS 

It  is  easy  to  mould  the  yielding  clay. 

And  many  shapes  grow  into  beauty 

Under  the  facile  hand. 

But  forms  of  clay  are  lightly  broken; 

They  will  lie  shattered  and  forgotten  in  a  dingy  corner. 

But  underneath  the  slipping  clay 

Is  rock.  .  .  . 

I  would  rather  work  in  stubborn  rock 

All  the  years  of  my  life, 

And  make  one  strong  thing 

And  set  it  in  a  high,  clean  place, 

To  recall  the  granite  strength  of  my  desire. 

Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 


IQ2  NEW  VOICES 


COOL  TOMBS 

When  Abraham  Lincoln  was  shoveled  into  the  tombs,  he  forgot  the 
copperheads  and  the  assassin  ...  in  the  dust,  in  the  cool  tombs. 

And  Ulysses  Grant  lost  all  thought  of  con  men  and  Wall  Street,  cash 
and  collateral  turned  ashes  ...  in  the  dust,  hi  the  cool  tombs. 

Pocahontas  body,  lovely  as  a  poplar,  sweet  as  a  red  haw  hi  November 
or  a  pawpaw  in  May,  did  she  wonder?  does  she  remember?  .  .  . 
in  the  dust,  in  the  cool  tombs? 

Take  any  streetful  of  people  buying  clothes  and  groceries,  cheering  a 
hero  or  throwing  confetti  and  blowing  tin  horns  .  .  .  tell  me  if 
the  lovers  are  losers  .  .  .  tell  me  if  any  get  more  than  the 
lovers  ...  in  the  dust  ...  in  the  cool  tombs. 

Carl  Sandburg 

LOAM 

In  the  loam  we  sleep, 
In  the  cool  moist  loam, 
To  the  lull  of  years  that  pass 
And  the  break  of  stars, 

From  the  loam,  then, 
The  soft  warm  loam, 

We  rise: 

To  shape  of  rose  leaf, 
Of  face  and  shoulder. 

We  stand,  then, 

To  a  whiff  of  life, 
Lifted  to  the  silver  of  the  sun 
Over  and  out  of  the  loam 

A  day. 

Carl  Sandburg 


CERTAIN  RADICAL  POETS  193 

IDEALISTS 

Brother  Tree: 

Why  do  you  reach  and  reach? 

do  you  dream  some  day  to  touch  the  sky? 

Brother  Stream: 

Why  do  you  run  and  run? 

do  you  dream  some  day  to  fill  the  sea? 

Brother  Bird: 

Why  do  you  sing  and  sing? 

do  you  dream — 

Young  Man; 

Why  do  you  talk  and  talk  and  talk? 

Alfred  Kreymborg 

OLD  MANUSCRIPT 

The  sky 

is  that  beautiful  old  parchment 

in  which  the  sun 

and  the  moon 

keep  their  diary. 

To  read  it  all, 

one  must  be  a  linguist 

more  learned  than  Father  Wisdom; 

and  a  visionary 

more  clairvoyant  than  Mother  Dream. 

But  to  feel  it, 

one  must  be  an  apostle: 

one  who  is  more  than  intimate 

in  having  been,  always, 

the  only  confidant — 

like  the  earth 

or  the  sea. 

Alfred  Kreymborg 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE 

"Si'l  fait  beau  temps," 
Disait  un  papillon  volage, 
"  S'il  fait  beau  temps, 
Je  vais  folatrer  dans  les  champs." 
"Et  moi,"  lui  dit  Tabeille  sage, 
"  J'irai  me  mettre  a  mon  ouvrage 
S'U  fait  beau  temps." 

More  than  half  of  the  people  who  think  about  poetry  prefer 
to  believe  that  the  poet,  like  the  butterfly,  flutters  gaily  in  the 
sunlight  and  sips  honey.  They  like  to  think  that  because  he  is 
fed  on  the  honey  of  inspiration  his  wings  are  glorious  in  flight. 
But  poets  themselves,  and  those  who  know  most  about  them, 
tell  us  that  they  are  as  devout  in  labor  as  the  proverbial  bee. 
And  unless  poetry  is  a  thing  by  itself,  utterly  unlike  the  other 
great  arts,  unlike  music,  sculpture,  architecture,  the  dance,  the 
drama,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  labor  must  be  a  part  of  a 
poet's  life  and  that  there  must  be  a  travail  before  beauty  is  born. 

Yet  these  two  theories,  which  we  may  as  well  call  the  butter- 
fly theory  and  the  bee  theory,  are  not  necessarily  irreconcilable. 
A  poet  does  live  creatively  by  virtue  of  inspiration.  But  in- 
spiration is  not  a  thing  peculiar  to  poets.  All  mankind  knows 
inspiration,  and  if  it  did  not  belong  as  truly  to  the  housewife 
and  the  bricklayer  and  the  stockbroker  as  to  the  poet,  poets 
would  have  no  understanding  audience.  But  a  poet  is  a  poet 
by  reason  of  his  ability  to  do  with  inspiration  what  these  others 
can  not  do  with  it  or  can  not  do  so  well.  It  is  the  poet  who  makes 
the  delicate  cell,  the  poem,  in  which  the  honey  of  inspiration 
is  stored,  to  be  a  joy  for  all  in  the  days  when  no  flowers  blossom 
and  the  world  is  dour  and  cold.  That  he  may  know  how  to  make 
that  cell  the  poet  must  work! 

194 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE  195 

Now  fortunately,  there  are  many  ways  of  working,  and  sooner 
or  later  each  poet  finds  his  own  best  way.  Some  poets  brood  over 
poems  a  long  time  before  they  ever  set  down  a  word  on  paper, 
and  then,  when  it  is  once  set  down,  make  very  few  changes. 
This  is  what  Sara  Teasdale  does.  And  it  is  a  method  of  work 
common  to  many  makers  of  the  best  short  lyrics.  It  is  a  difficult 
method  for  poets  whose  days  are  full  of  other  things  than  poetry, 
for  there  is  always  the  danger  of  losing  the  poem.  But  to  hold 
a  poem  in  the  mind  and  let  it  grow  there  is  a  fine  and  natural 
way  of  making  it.  Other  poets  write  rapidly  and  make  few 
alterations,  but  they  write  many,  many  poems  which  they  re- 
gard only  as  practice-work  and  throw  away.  When  they  are 
content  they  give  the  poem  to  the  public,  but  not  otherwise. 
Such  poets  must  have  a  well-developed  critical  faculty  and  must 
be  able  to  choose  wisely  from  their  own  works  the  things  that 
are  best.  Robert  Frost  works  in  this  way  and  seldom  gives  the 
world  a  poem  which  the  world  is  not  glad  to  receive.  Still 
other  poets  write  in  the  first  flush  of  inspiration  and  then  revise 
again  and  again  until  the  perfect  poem  emerges  out  of  a  chaos 
of  self-expression.  Vachel  Lindsay  works  in  this  way.  He  some- 
times re-writes  his  long  poems  thirty  or  forty  times.  And 
finally,  there  are  poets  who  write  very  slowly  and  revise  with 
great  care.  Such  a  poet  is  Carl  Sandburg,  a  master  of  concise 
human  speech. 

Moreover,  the  fact  that  a  great  poet  can  write  a  masterpiece 
as  John  Masefield  wrote  his  "Cargoes,"  in  a  few  minutes  one 
Sunday  morning,  should  not  lead  any  young  poets  to  accept 
the  butterfly  theory  of  poetry.  When  Mr.  Masefield  achieved 
that  miracle  he  was  already  a  master  poet.  The  masters  can 
all  do  things  that  can  not  be  done  by  the  pupils,  by  beginners. 
They  have  learned  their  craft.  When  the  idea  comes,  when  the 
keen  emotion  is  felt,  when  they  have  found  inspiration,  they  are 
ready.  They  are  amply  equipped  for  the  task  of  giving  form  to 
idea  and  mood  and  inspiration.  And,  moreover,  in  one  way  or 
another,  the  masters  have  earned  that  equipment  by  hard  work. 
They  have  learned  what  they  know.  They  have  taught  them- 


j96  NEW  VOICES 

selves  how  to  do  what  they  have  done.  Every  poet,  whether 
he  realizes  it  or  not  (and  often  he  does  not  realize  it),  has  lived 
through  what  may  be  called  a  "vocational  education."  The 
more  we  learn  about  the  lives  of  poets  the  more  certain  we  are 
that  this  is  true. 

Fortunately,  very  few  poets  were  ever  self-conscious  about  this 
vocational  education.  Very  few  have  "taken  courses"  in  the 
hope  of  learning  "how  to  be  poets."  That  would  be  almost 
criminal!  But,  if  we  could  investigate,  we  should  be  likely  to 
find  out  that  nearly  all  good  poets  began,  in  childhood  or  early 
youth,  to  do  certain  things  of  their  own  volition  and  for  their 
own  satisfaction  that  were  of  undoubted  value  in  preparation  for 
poethood. 

Perhaps  the  poet-child  showed  a  keen  zest  for  rhythm  and  a 
marked  desire  to  experiment  with  rhythmical  tunes.  Perhaps 
he  loved  to  dance  or  to  move  his  hands  in  time  to  the  rhythm  of 
music,  or  to  watch  the  movement  of  great  machines  and  attempt 
to  count  the  time  and  give  the  stresses  by  tapping,  or  perhaps 
he  even  attempted  to  tap  the  staccato  rhythms  of  a  strongly 
accented  bit  of  conversation.  Perhaps  his  sense  of  rhythm  was 
pleased  by  certain  forms  of  athletic  play  and  perhaps  he  tried 
to  translate  these  rhythms  into  words.  All  of  these  ways  of 
playing  with  rhythmical  tunes  might  justly  be  called  a  work  of 
preparation  for  the  making  of  poems.  One  poet,  Margaret 
Widdemer,  tells  me  that  when  she  was  a  little  girl  she  would  go 
all  alone  into  her  grandmother's  big  parlor  and  dance  there, 
without  music,  for  sheer  delight  in  the  rhythms  she  could 
make. 

Later  came  a  more  self-conscious  preparation  for  the  life  of  a 
poet.  The  poet-child  began  to  write  poems.  He  would  set  down 
on  a  piece  of  paper  his  rhymes  and  rhythms  and  ideas  and  emo- 
tions, and  he  would  gloat  over  these  effusions  in  secret.  When 
he  had  just  written  a  lyric  he  probably  thought  it  the  finest 
poem  in  the  world.  A  few  days,  a  few  weeks  or  a  few  months 
later  he  would  be  in  despair  about  it.  Then  he  would  write  an- 
other. Sometimes  he  would  solemnly  vow  by  Apollo  and  all 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE  197 

the  Muses  to  give  up  poetry  and  become  a  real  estate  agent,  or 
keep  chickens.  Then  he  would  find  out  that  it  was  impossible 
to  give  up  poetry.  It  simply  could  not  be  done.  And  he  would 
return  to  his  first  love  and  vow  by  Apollo  and  all  the  Muses 
that  he  would  become  a  great  poet.  And  this  also  was  a  part 
of  the  vocational  education  of  the  poet.  For  all  good  poets 
learn,  sooner  or  later,  that  they  can  not  give  up  poetry,  that  they 
must  make  it,  and  that  they  should  make  it  as  well  as  they 
possibly  can. 

Another  part  of  a  poet's  vocational  education  is  learning  to 
love  the  masterpieces  of  other  poets.  William  Rose  Benet,  an 
accomplished  poet  and  an  experienced  editor,  says: 

"I  shall  never  forget  walking  the  streets  of  Oakland,  Cali- 
fornia, in  the  belief  that  I  was  another  Francis  Thompson  selling 
matches  or  something,  just  after  I  had  read  his  poem,  'Any 
Saint.'  Of  course  I  wasn't,  but  it  did  my  poetic  impulse  untold 
good.  I  became  such  a  lunatic  on  the  subject  of  Francis  Thomp- 
son that  if  I  found  ten  words  about  him  in  any  magazine — and 
there  have  been  nearer  a  million  written — I  would  gloat  over 
them  in  ecstasy.  I  used  to  haunt  the  old  Mercantile  Library 
in  San  Francisco  before  it  moved  down  town.  I  was  then  study- 
ing stenography  in  a  business  college.  One  noon  I  discovered 
in  a  back  number  of  The  English  Review  John  Masefield's  song 
about 

'A  bosun  in  a  blue  coat  bawling  at  the  railing, 
Piping  through  a  silver  call  that  had  a  chain  of  gold.' 

That  was  a  number  of  years  before  he  was  famous.  The  hour  was 
enchanted  for  me  till  I  got  that  stave  by  heart." 

Mr.  Benet  says  it  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  young 
poets  to  "get  drunk  on  the  poetry  of  other  poets,  but  they  must 
be  great  poets,  and  the  young  poet  must  pick  them  out  for  him- 
self and  because  they  meet  the  needs  of  his  particular  tempera- 
ment." But  he  is  careful  to  add  this  word  of  advice,  "Don't 
write  the  way  they  do!  Imitate  them  outright  if  you  like,  for 
practice,  but  recognize  it  as  imitation.  Don't  reflect  the  minds  and 


198  NEW  VOICES 

usages  of  other  people,  no  matter  how  much  it  seems  the  only 
way  to  write.  It  isn't.  There  are  a  thousand  thousand  ways  to 
write.  When  you  write,  try  to  express  yourself,  not  someone 
else." 

Such  elder-brotherly  advice  from  poets  is  hard  to  get  except 
in  personal  conversation  between  old  friends.  As  a  general  thing 
when  anyone  asks  a  poet  how  poems  are  made  the  poet  looks  up 
with  pained  bewilderment  and  says  he  does  not  know.  Usually 
he  is  telling  the  truth.  When  he  is  making  a  poem  he  is  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  creative  labor  that  he  can  not  watch  the  process 
carefully,  or  as  one  poet  says,  "hear  his  own  clock  tick."  And 
when  the  poem  is  finished  the  process  of  its  creation  interests 
him  very  little.  He  has  climbed  into  Paradise.  Good.  He 
will  kick  away  the  ladder  by  which  he  climbed. 

The  poet's  stock  answer  for  inquisitive  ladies  and  other  pry- 
ing persons  who  wish  to  know  how  his  poems  are  made  is,  "I 
don't  know.  They  make  themselves."  This  is  a  half- truth, 
and  like  most  half-truths,  it  sounds  very  fine.  True,  the  poet 
seldom  does  know  just  how  his  poems  began  to  grow  in  his 
mind,  whether  they  were  suggested  by  a  scent  or  color  of  the 
external  world  or  by  an  inward  conflict  of  emotions.  True,  he 
seldom  knows  just  how  he  performs  the  glorious,  concentrated 
intellectual  labor  that  makes  his  moods  vocal  and  communi- 
cable. And  to  say  that  poems  make  themselves  is  not  a  bad 
way  of  explaining  all  this.  For  unless  poems  do,  in  a  certain 
sense,  make  themselves,  they  should  not  be  made  at  all.  Cer- 
tainly they  should  never  be  written  to  please  a  friend  or  an  editor. 
If  they  are  written  simply  as  a  result  of  some  such  suggestion 
from  the  outside,  they  are  likely  to  be  dull  and  lifeless.  This 
accounts  for  the  insipid  quality  of  most  "occasional  poems." 
When  people  ask  poets  to  be  "occasional"  they  should  permit 
them  to  be  humorous  and  write  mere  verse. 

But  we  can  hardly  suppose  that  poems  are  made  without  the 
instrumentality  of  the  human  intellect!  Indeed  the  more  we 
know  about  poems  the  more  certain  we  become  that  they  are 
made  by  the  whole  personality  of  the  poet.  The  mere  fact  that 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE  199 

they  are  ever  made  implies  the  process  of  creation!  And  any 
process  is  interesting  if  we  can  find  out  about  it  from  those  who 
have  watched  it  and  understood  it  and  are  able  to  analyze  and 
describe. 

For  this  reason  it  is  a  great  pleasure  and  privilege  to  be  able 
to  present  Sara  Teasdale's  ideas  on  the  subject  of  how  poems  are 
made.  Sara  Teasdale  is  well  known  for  her  brief,  simple  lyrics 
wherever  English  poetry  is  read,  and  what  she  has  to  say  can  be 
accepted  safely  as  authoritative.  She  realizes,  of  course,  that 
other  kinds  of  poetry  can  be  made  by  other  poets  in  other  ways. 
But  this  is  one  way  and  the  results  justify  a  careful  considera- 
tion of  the  method.  She  says: 

"My  theory  is  that  poems  are  written  because  of  a  state  of 
emotional  irritation.  It  may  be  present  for  some  time  before 
the  poet  is  conscious  of  what  is  tormenting  him.  The  emotional 
irritation  springs,  probably,  from  subconscious  combinations  of 
partly  forgotten  thoughts  and  feelings.  Coming  together,  like 
electrical  currents  in  a  thunder  storm,  they  produce  a  poem.  A 
poem  springs  from  emotions  produced  by  an  actual  experience, 
or,  almost  as  forcefully,  from  those  produced  by  an  imaginary 
experience.  In  either  case,  the  poem  is  written  to  free  the  poet 
from  an  emotional  burden.  Any  poem  not  so  written  is  only  a 
piece  of  craftsmanship. 

"Most  poets  find  it  easier  to  write  about  themselves  than 
about  anything  else  because  they  know  more  about  themselves 
than  about  anything  else.  If  a  poet  has  a  great  gift,  he  may  be 
able  to  speak  for  a  whole  race,  creed  or  class  simply  by  speaking 
for  himself.  But  for  a  poet  consciously  to  appoint  himself  the 
mouthpiece  of  a  certain  class  or  creed  en  masse,  is  dangerous 
business.  If  each  poet  will  try  to  get  himself  down  in  black  and 
white  as  concisely  and  honestly  as  he  can,  every  kind  of  re- 
action to  beauty  and  pain  will  finally  be  recorded.  Each  poet  will 
make  a  record  different  from  that  of  any  of  his  fellows,  and  yet 
the  record  of  each  will  be  true. 

"  Out  of  the  fog  of  emotional  restlessness  from  which  a  poem 
springs,  the  basic  idea  emerges  sometimes  slowly,  sometimes 


200  NEW  VOICES 

in  a  flash.  This  idea  is  known  at  once  to  be  the  light  toward 
which  the  poet  was  groping.  He  now  walks  round  and  round 
it,  so  to  speak,  looking  at  it  from  all  sides,  trying  to  see  which 
aspect  of  it  is  the  most  vivid.  When  he  has  hit  upon  what  he 
believes  is  his  peculiar  angle  of  vision,  the  poem  is  fairly  begun. 
The  first  line  comes  floating  toward  him  with  a  charming  defi- 
niteness  of  color  and  music.  In  my  own  case  the  rhythm  of  a 
poem  usually  follows,  in  a  general  way,  the  rhythm  of  the  first 
line.  [This  is  what  Lanier  thought  should  be  true.  Author.] 
S.  M  The  form  of  the  poem  should  be  a  clear  window-pane  through 
^-1  which  you  see  the  poem's  heart.  The  form,  as  form,  should  be 
\engrossing  neither  to  the  poet  nor  to  the  reader.  The  reader 
Ishould  be  barely  conscious  of  the  form,  the  rhymes  or  the  rhythm. 
VHe  should  be  conscious  only  of  emotions  given  him,  and  uncon- 
scious of  the  medium  by  which  they  are  transmitted. 

"  For  generations  readers  have  been  accustomed  to  certain 
forms  of  rhythms  and  to  certain  rhyme-schemes.  These  are 
familiar.  They  carry  the.  reader  swiftly  and  easily  to  the  heart 
of  the  poem.  They  do  not  astonish  or  bewilder  him.  The  poet 
who  chooses  this  older,  more  melodic  music,  and  the  regular 
chiming  of  the  rhymes  that  usually  goes  with  it,  should  use 
great  care  to  vary  these  deftly  and  spontaneously.  Otherwise 
his  poem  will  be  an  unconvincing  sing-song. 

"  Brief  lyrical  poems  should  be  moulded  in  the  poet's  mind. 
They  are  far  more  fluid  before  they  touch  ink  and  paper  than 
they  ever  are  afterward.  The  warmth  of  the  idea  that  generated 
the  poem  should  make  it  clear,  ductile,  a  finished  creation,  before 
it  touches  cold  white  paper.  In  the  process  of  moulding  his 
idea  into  a  poem  the  poet  will  be  at  white  heat  of  intellectual 
and  emotional  activity,  bearing  in  mind  that  every  word,  every 
syllable,  must  be  an  unobtrusive  and  yet  an  indispensabla 
part  of  his  creation.  Every  beat  of  his  rhythm,  the  color  of 
each  word,  the  ring  of  each  rhyme,  must  carry  his  poem,  as  a 
well-laid  railway  track  carries  a  train  of  cars,  smoothly  to  its 
destination.  The  poet  must  put  far  fromjiim  theamazing  word, 
the  learned  allusion,  the  facile  inversion /the  clever  twist 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE  201 

for^all  of  these  things  will  hlnr  his^oem  and  distract 
\hisj-eader.  He  must  not  overcrowd  his  lines  with  figures  of 
'Ispeech7  because,  in  piling  these  one  upon  another,  he  defeats 
his  own  purpose.  The  mind  of  the  reader  can  not  hold  many  im- 
pressions at  one  time.  The_poet  should  jry_  to  give  his  poem 
the  quiet  swiftness  of  flame,  so  that  the  reader  will  f  eeland  not 
thinF^wriiiehe  is  reading.  But  the~~trnnidn^^iH^o1me  after- 
wards." 

William  Rose  Benet  is  another  poet  who  has  consented  to  say 
what  he  knows  about  how  poems  are  made.  His  own  poetry 
is  not  at  all  like  Sara  Teasdale's,  although  he  has  written  a  few 
fine  subjective  lyrics.  His  best  poems  have  always  a  certain 
narrative  interest  and  seem  like  stories  of  spiritual  adventure. 
He  carries  us  into  far  countries  of  the  imagination  to  see  strange 
sights  and  hear  wild,  engaging  talk.  He  has  a  genius  for  the 
making  of  ballads  and  his  poem,  "The  Horse  Thief,"  half  realism 
and  half  flamboyant  fancy,  is  one  of  the  finest  of  the  kind  in 
recent  literature. 

Mr.  Benet's  suggestions  constitute  a  program  for  an  intel- 
lectual athlete.  This  is  part  of  what  he  says: 

"  Sidney  Lanier  was  of  the  belief  that  a  poet  should  have  sound 
scientific  knowledge,  should  know  biology,  geology,  archaeology 
as  well  as  etymology.  I  should  add  psychology,  sociology,  and 
all  the  other  ologies  there  are.  This  is  almost  ridiculous,  you 
say.  There  is  nothing  ridiculous  about  it.  A  poet  should  swal- 
low the  encyclopaedia,  and  then  after  that  the  dictionary.  He 
should  be  a  linguist  if  possible.  He  should  be  a  business  man. 
He  should  be  able  to  meet  any  type  of  man  on  his  own  ground 
and  understand  what  he  is  talking  about.  The  poet  should  be 
able,  also,  to  relate  the  thing  discussed  to  the  cosmos  in  general 
as  the  highly  specialized  individual  is  not  able  to  relate  it.  A 
poet  should  know  history  inside  and  out  and  should  take  as 
much  interest  in  the  days  of  Nebuchadnezzar  as  in  the  days  of 
Pierpont  Morgan.  Don't  get  the  idea  that  you  can  only  write 
about  fairies — but  there  are  plenty  of  fairies  even  on  the  Stock 
Exchange  if  you  are  attractive  to  fairies.  They  are  whimsical 


202  NEW  VOICES 

people,  you  know.  But  get  interested  in  everything,  and  stay 
interested." 

If  young  poets  were  to  accept  this  advice  at  its  face  value  they 
would  be  nourishing  impossible  ambitions.  But  the  thing  that 
Mr.  Benet  means,  the  thing  he  is  trying  to  emphasize  in  this 
paragraph,  is  a  thing  that  young  poets  can  achieve  if  they 
will,  a  certain  breadth  of  sympathy  and  understanding  that 
reaches  through  all  pursuits  and  vocations  to  the  common 
heart  of  mankind,  and  a  certain  breadth  of  interest  in  all 
that  happens  in  the  world,  all  that  has  happened  or  is  likely  to 
happen. 

When  Mr.  Benet  goes  on  to  talk  of  the  actual  process  of  mak- 
ing poems,  we  find  that  what  he  has  to  say  is  very  interesting 
in  relation  to  the  kind  of  poems  he  writes,  which  we  ought  to  ex- 
pect, of  course.  He  suggests,  first  of  all,  the  acquisition  of  a  good 
vocabulary,  then  a  practice  in  visualization.  "Hunt  up  all  the 
itings  ancient  or  modern  that  you  can  see  and  saturate 
[f  in  their  mysteries  of  color.  That  will  help  your  visuali- 
~zation  to  be  more  than  a  cheap  lithograph.  Then,  when  you 
come  to  make  a  poem,  visualize  intensely.  Try  to  see  it  as  if  it 
were  a  living  scene  with  more  than  '  shadow  shapes  that  come 
and  go'  moving  through  it.  Then  think  of  your  visualization 
in  terms  of  the  greatest  music  you  know.  Hold  that  thought  1 
Wrestle  with  it  until  you  feel  that  somehow — God  alone  knows 
how  — you  can  express  it  in  words." 

Mr.  Benet  offers  young  poets  several  other  bits  of  excellent 
advice.  "Get  your  poems  by  heart,"  he  says,  "and  go  around 
annoying  people  by  mouthing  to  yourself."  This  is  really  very 
important,  for  it  is  almost  the  only  way  that  the  young  poet 
has  of  learning  how  words  sound  in  sequences.  Mr.  Benet  has 
some  good  things  to  say,  also,  about  writing  for  the  love  of  ex- 
pression and  writing  for  money. 

"If  you  want  to  write  for  money,  all  right.  I  have  written  for 
money  and  served  God  and  Mammon.  It  is  pleasanter  serving 
God,  but  Mammon  is  more  remunerative — possibly.  I'm  not 
yet  sure.  One  thing  I  am  sure  of.  A  poem  that  is  not  written 


EDWIN   MARKHAM 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE  203 

out  of  an  enthusiasm  quite  above  the  consideration  of  personal 
gain,  though  that  element  may  figure,  can  never  be  a  great  poem. 
Poets  have  never  made  money  at  poetry.  I  don't  believe  they 
ever  will.  That  means — when  you  are  writing  poetry  try  to 
write  great  poetry — don't  try  to  write  verse.  Don't  mix  the 
two  things.  You  can  write  verse  also  if  you  like.  But  don't 
make  shandygaff  of  your  poetry.  There  is  no  pleasure  like  the 
writing  of  poetry,  and  no  despair  like  it. 

"Do  not  be  didactic  in  words  if  you  can  help  it.  If  your 
poem  is  a  great  poem  it  will  be  powerfully  didactic  in  effect. 
And  that  is  all  that  is  worth  anything.  If  you  preach  out- 
right in  words  the  chances  are  that  you  will  weaken  the 
'drive'  of  your  poem  and  circumscribe  the  scope  of  its  in- 
fluence." 

Another  poet  who  is  careful  to  warn  young  poets  of  the  dangers 
of  didacticism  is  Edwin  Markham,  the  famous  maker  of  "The 
Man  With  The  Hoe."  His  warning  is  the  more  valuable  because 
indiscriminating  people  sometimes  call  "The  Man  With  The 
Hoe"  didactic  poetry,  failing  to  understand  that  everything 
that  might  have  been  dry  and  didactic  in  such  a  poem  was  con- 
sumed in  this  poet's  great  social  passion,  transmuted  into  pure 
flame  of  emotion  before  it  was  expressed  in  virile  poetry.  No 
poet  in  America  is  better  known  or  better  loved  than  Mr.  Mark- 
ham.  His  advice  will  surely  be  welcomed  by  young  poets  of 
to-morrow.  This  is  what  he  says: 

"The  poet  comes  to  behold  and  to  express  the  hidden  loveli- 
ness of  the  world,  to  point  out  the  ideal  that  is  ever  seeking  to 
push  through  the  husk  of  things  and  to  reveal  the  inner  spiritual 
reality.  So  all  of  life  is  material  for  his  seeing  eye  and  his  think- 
ing heart,  as  he  makes  the  wonderful  familiar  and  makes  the 
familiar  wonderful. 

"  Young  poet,  I  command  you  to  be  critical  of  your  own  work, 
to  reach  a  ground  where  you  can  not  be  easily  satisfied.  Make  a 
serious  study  of  the  art  of  poetry  and  become  acquainted  at  first 
hand  with  the  best  poetry  of  the  world.  Read  constantly  the 
great  masters;  dwell  with  loving  heart  upon  their  great  lines, 


204  NEW  VOICES 

their  great  passages,  their  great  poems.  These  will  become 
touchstones  for  testing  the  value  of  your  own  verse.  There  is 
nothing  that  takes  the  place  of  work.  The  kingdom  of  song  can 
be  taken  only  by  industry,  by  patient  resolve  led  on  by  the  wings 
of  inspiration. 

"Listen  to  a  few  warnings:  the  greatest  of  all  poetic  heresies 
is  the  heresy  of  the  Didactic.  We  who  have  a  serious  purpose  in 
our  poetry,  must,  as  far  as  possible,  beware  of  the  bare-bones  of 
moral  preachment.  We  must  not  be  so  intent  on  capturing  the 
truth  as  to  forget  the  beauty  that  is  the  veil  of  truth.  Indeed, 
beauty  is  so  essential  to  truth  that  we  do  not  really  possess 
the  truth  unless  we  have  the  beauty.  So  we  are  forced  to  keep 
seeking  until  we  find  some  symbol  that  will  express  the  beauty 
that  is  the  eternal  vesture  of  truth.  This  is  not  always  an  easy 
task,  yet  it  is  the  stern  task  that  is  laid  upon  the  poet  by  the 
austere  Muse. 

"The  poet  must  avoid  the  threadbare,  the  commonplace,  and 
the  scientifically  exact.  He  seeks  to  rise  on  the  wings  of  words 
to  that  high  level  where  the  kindled  imagination  can  create 
forms  of  ideal  loveliness  and  find  space  for  unhindered  flight. 
To  this  end  the  poet  must  avoid  words  like  '  visualize '  as  being 
too  precise  for  his  purpose,  too  cold  for  his  emotion.  As  far 
as  possible  he  must  use  words  that  have  been  long  lavendered 
by  time  and  are  therefore  surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of 
association  and  suggestiveness. 

"Be  especially  careful,  then,  to  a.voirl  all  Tynrn-nnt.  phrases  and 
clauses.  I  have  just  come  upon  one  in  a  recent  poet's  work: 
'Things  are  not  what  they  seem.'  Hackneyed  expression  is 
the  death  of  poesy.  Seek  for  the  fresh  phrase  that  will  send 
upon  the  mind  the  surprise  of  unexpected  beauty. 

"There  are  three  planes  in  the  poet's  work — the  ground  of 
imagination,  the  highest  of  all  grounds;  the  ground  of  winsome 
fancy;  and  the  yet  lower  ground  of  freakish  conceit.  A  flash ) 
of  imagination  gives  you  the  sense  of  the  ultimate  truth,  a 
glimpse  of  the  universe  as  God  sees  it.  An  airy  bubble  of  fancy 
gives  you  a  pleasing  glitter;  if  it  is  not  the  truth,  it  is  at  least 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE  205 

an  illusion  that  charms  us.     But  a  conceit  is  a  forced  fancy: 
we  feel  no  livingness  in  it,  no  illusion  of  poetic  reality. 

"  And  now,  young  poet,  I  am  sending  you  my  lyric  blessing 
and  wishing  you  many  happy  adventures  on  the  hills  of 
Helicon." 

Another  poet  whose  opinions  many  young  readers  will  be 
glad  to  know  is  Harriet  Monroe.  This  is  what  she  has  been 
kind  enough  to  say: 

"As  editor  of  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  I  have  had  the 
pleasure — or  pain — of  reading  in  typed  manuscript  vast  numbers 
of  modern  poems.  This  severe  and  educative  discipline  has  made 
me  very  weary  of  certain  faults  which  are,  in  the  last  analysis, 
insincerities — the  use  of  another  man's  or  another  period's,  \ 
words,  phrases  or  ideas  instead  of  the  poet's  own. 

"  We  have  almost  vowed  never  to  print  in  Poetry  such  words 
as  'surcease,'  "erstwhile/  'arum,'  'forsooth,'  'doth,'  'thoy/ 
and  'tEee/  and  countless  phrases  similarly  archaic;  except  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  subject  and  mood  demand  an  archaic 
effect.  Also  we  have  grown  extremely  tired  of  ^an  and  other 
such  talked-of  gods  of  Greece;  of  Babylon  and  Arcadia  and  other 
more  or  less  fabulous  places;  of  Guinevere  and  Helen  of  Troy 
and  Cleopatra — all  the  long-celebrated  fascinators.  It  requires 
a  special  and  peculiar  magic  to  touch  any  of  these  enshrined  idols 
without  disaster,  and  with  most  modern  poets  the  effort  to  do 
so  is  merely  a  pathetic  appeal  from  the  poverty  of  their  own 
imaginations  to  the  wealth  that  has  been  accumulated  by  the 
poets  and  artists  of  the  past.  It  is  essentially  an  insincerity, fl 
because  it  uses  other  people's  experience  and  imagining  instead; 
of  the  poet's  own.  And  a  stern  and  stripped  sincerity  is  a  first  ^ 
essential  of  good  art. 

"  Sincerity  of  rhythm — a  technique  evolved  from  within,  from  \ 
the  poet's  own  need,  and  not  adopted  ready-made,  is  another  J 
essential  which  the  modern  poet  should  demand  of  himself. 
If  he  is  not  satisfied  with  merely  stringing  iambics  or  anapaests, 
he  may  discover  that  each  person's  most  intimate  possession  is 
the  intensely  personal  rhythm  to  which  he  attunes  the  world. 


206  NEW  VOICES 

If  he  doesn't  find  his  own,  he  will  be  saved  the  agony  of  more 
slowly  discovering  that  he  is  no  poet. 

"  I  know  of  no  rules  but  this  for  writing  poems,  and  this  pre- 
supposes a  human  soul  overcharged  with  emotion,  with  love  of 
life,  and  impelled  to  utter  it  in  words.  Be  sincere — present  your 
own  emotional  experience,  not  anyone  else's,  in  your  own  care- 
fully chosen  words  and  intensely  felt  rhythms,  not  anyone 
else's." 

It  is  easy  to  tell  how  poems  should  not  be  made.  That  is 
what  is  usually  done.  And  there  the  instruction  given  usually 
stops.  Few  indeed  are  the  poets  who,  like  Sara  Teasdale,  can 
give  a  really  helpful  account  of  how  poems  actually  are  made,  or 
are  willing  to  do  it  if  they  can.  But,  one  and  all,  the  poets  agree 
in  this  matter  of  sincerity.  Padraic  Colum,  the  young  Irish 
poet  now  resident  in  this  country,  reiterates  the  same  idea  with 
a  charming  humor  that  is  part  of  his  Celtic  inheritance,  no 
doubt: 

"The  best  way  of  making  a  play,  according  to  Bernard  Shaw, 
is  to  take  over  a  portion  of  another  play.  This  process  can  not 
be  commended  as  regards  the  making  of  poetry.  In  the  first 
place  the  available  amount  of  poetry  is  better  and  more  publicly 
known  than  the  available  material  in  plays:  one  would  have  to 
put  in  passages  that  someone  would  recognize  and  the  recognition 
would  cause  a  loss  of  attention!" 

Reinforcing  his  humorous  Irish  reason,  Mr.  Colum  says  that 
poems  must  be  the  result  of  intensity  of  feeling. 

"Now  intensity  of  feeling  can  only  come  from  personal, 
from  novel  experience.  Without  personal,  without  novel  ex- 
perience, we  may  say  that  there  will  be  no  liveliness  of  move- 
ment in  the  poem.  We  have  to  be  sure,  then,  that  we  have 
some  intensity  of  feeling  about  the  matter  that  is  in  our 
mind  to  be  projected  as  a  poem.  It  is  personal,  that  is  to  say, 
it  is  not  something  that  has  been  reported  to  you,  but  something 
that  belongs  to  yourself:  also  it  means  more  to  you  than  any- 
thing else  of  the  ten  thousand  happenings  of  the  day.  Feeling 
like  this  about  the  matter  you  may  start  to  make  your  poem. 


HOW  POEMS  ARE  MADE  207 

Remember,  if  your  poem  is  to  be  a  short  one  that  the  poem  is  in 
the  first  line. — 

"She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night." 

Everything  is  said  in  that  first  line,  and  what  follows  only  holds 
up  the  mood  that  that  first  line  has  evoked. 
"The  rest  has  all  been  said  by  Gautier. — 

'Leave  to  the  tyro's  hands 

The  loose,  unlabored  style: 

Choose  thou  that  which  demands  / 

The  labor  of  the  file/ 

"Do  not  let  your  little  poem  run  about  too  soon  or  it  may  be- 
come bandy-legged.  Nurse  it  in  your  mind  for  many  days  and 
give  it  the  blessing  of  the  sun  and  moon  and  air  and  of  the 
silence  of  the  night." 

The  same  warning  against  insincerity  is  tacitly  suggested  in 
what  Robert  Frost  has  said  about  realism  and  idealism  in  litera- 
ture. The  dry,  homely  humor  of  the  following  paragraph  merits 
repetition. 

"A  man  who  makes  really  good  literature,"  says  Mr.  Frost, 
"is  like  a  fellow  who  goes  into  the  fields  to  pull  carrots.  He 
keeps  on  pulling  them  patiently  enough  until  he  finds  a  carrot 
that  suggests  something  else  to  him.  It  is  not  shaped  like  other 
carrots.  He  takes  out  his  knife  and  notches  it  here  and  there, 
until  the  two  pronged  roots  become  legs  and  the  carrot  takes  on 
something  of  the  semblance  of  a  man.  The  real  genius  takes 
hold  of  that  bit  of  life  which  is  suggestive  to  him  and  gives  it 
form.  But  the  man  who  is  merely  a  realist,  and  not  a  genius, 
will  leave  the  carrot  just  as  he  finds  it.  The  man  who  is  merely 
an  idealist  and  not  a  genius,  will  try  to  carve  a  donkey  where  no 
donkey  is  suggested  by  the  carrot  he  pulls." 

Two  other  things  a  young  poet  should  always  remember  as  well 
as  he  remembers  a  poet's  sincerity,  and  they  are  a  poet's  pride 
and  a  poet's  humility.  The  poet's  pride  is  a  pride  in  his  voca- 
tion, not  in  himself,  a  pride  in  his  art,  not  in  his  own  artistry. 
It  is  a  pride  that  can  make  him  of  one  heart  and  mind  with 


208  NEW  VOICES 

"makers"  of  old,  no  matter  how  humble  he  may  be.  The 
primitive  singer  of  the  cavemen,  the  first  bards  and  minstrels, 
the  epic  masters,  all  have  passed  on  to  him  a  part  of  their  gift 
of  the  Word. 

This  pride,  furthermore,  will  not  permit  even  the  youngest 
and  humblest  of  the  poets  to  hear  poetry  underrated  without 
protest.  His  protest  may  be  humorous,  but  he  will  make  it, 
gently,  in  a  thoughtless  world,  whenever  it  may  be  necessary. 
Then  mankind,  as  a  whole,  will  come  at  last  to  perceive  some- 
thing of  the  grandeur  of  poetry.  The  story  of  a  poet's  pride  in 
poetry  is  most  magically  told  in  "At  The  King's  Threshold" 
by  William  Butler  Yeats.  Mr.  Yeats  tells  the  story  of  Sean- 
chan,  poet  of  ancient  Ireland,  who  lay  down  to  die  of  starvation 
on  the  threshhold  of  the  king,  to  cast  shame  upon  him,  because 
that  unwise  king  had  denied  to  him,  a  representative  of  poetry, 
a  place  with  the  bishops  and  the  lawgivers  at  the  royal  table. 
That  unwise  king  had  to  learn  that  poetry  must  be  respected. 
He  humbled  himself  before  Seanchan.  To-day  the  people  are 
kings.  It  is  for  poets  to  command  their  respect. 

But  for  himself  the  poet  must  be  humble.  Fame  is  something 
which  may  come  to  him  with  its  advantage  of  association  with 
the  world's  great  folk  and  its  disadvantages  of  stress  and  burden- 
some publicity  and  misunderstanding  and  the  unkindness  of 
many  commentators.  But  fame  is  not  what  should  be  hungrily 
sought.  The  thing  to  be  hungrily  sought  is  beauty  of  expression. 
When  a  poet  is  seeking  that  he  will  be  content  to  say, 
humbly,  with  Robert  Bridges,  Laureate  of  England, 

"I  have  loved  flowers  that  fade 
Within  whose  magic  tents 
Rich  hues  have  marriage  made 
With  sweet  unmemoried  scents: 
A  honeymoon  delight, — 
A  joy  of  love  at  sight, 
That  ages  in  an  hour: — 
My  song  be  like  a  flower!" 


PART  II 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES 

At  the  Author's  Congress  of  The  Panama-Pacific  International 
Exposition  in  1915,  Edwin  Markham,  who  is  often  called  "The 
Dean  of  American  Poetry,"  gave  an  address  on  the  subject 
of  contemporary  verse.  Those  who  listened  felt  that,  in  spite 
of  his  venerable  appearance,  he  was  one  of  the  youngest  and 
most  promising  poets  present.  In  the  course  of  his  discussion 
he  told  the  following  story.  A  young  man  once  went  to  Mr. 
Markham  and  said,  "Mr.  Markham,  I  feel  sure  that  I  have  it 
in  me  to  write  a  great  poem.  I  know  that  I  can  do  it.  But  I 
have  not  been  able  to  think  of  a  subject  worthy  of  my  powers. 
Now,  Mr.  Markham,  if  you  will  suggest  the  subject,  I  will 
write  the  poem."  Mr.  Markham  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and, 
after  a  moment's  deliberation,  drew  thence  a  rusty  nail.  "This 
is  as  good  a  subject  as  any,"  said  he  to  the  young  man.  And 
the  young  man  was  properly  rebuked. 

For  a  man  who,  in  a  world  of  physical  and  spiritual  miracles, 
could  think  of  no  subject  "worthy  of  his  powers,"  would  write 
no  better  of  the  grand  march  of  the  galaxies  in  the  milky  way 
than  of  a  little  piece  of  metal  covered  with  rust.  After  all,  the 
little  piece  of  iron  has  been  a  part  of  the  procession  of  stars  and_ 
planets.  And,  if  our  minds  are  so  dull  and  unimaginative 
we  find  no  cause  for  wonder  in  near  and  familiar  objects, 
should  we  dare  to  suppose  that  we  can  fathom,  describe, 
terpret  marvels  vast  and  remote?  Mr.  Markham  knew  very 
well  that  a  rusty  nail  in  the  pocket  of  a  genius  may  be  anything 
that  the  genius  wishes  it  to  be.  It  may  be  the  very  nail  that 
held  down  the  first  plank  in  the  floor  of  the  house  that  Jack 
built.  Or  a  leprachaun  may  have  used  it  in  cobbling  the  boot  of 
a  giant.  But  in  the  pocket  of  a  dull,  uninteresting  man  a  rusty 
nail  becomes  a  dull,  uninteresting  object.  Now  the  moral  of 
Mr.  Markham's  story  is  simply  this:  //  is  the  poet  who  makes 

211 


of  stars  and 
[native  thatj 
bjects,  why  I 
:ibe,  and  u>J 


212  NEW  VOICES 

the  poem,  not  the  theme!  A  poor  poetaster  will  make  poor  poetry, 
or  slipshod  verse  out  of  the  greatest  theme  of  all — if  there  be 
any  greatest  theme.  And  indeed  his  inadequacy  will  be  the 
more  apparent  when  he  strains  after  that  which  his  intellect 
can  not  reach.  A  great  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  will  make  great 
s  out  of  things  that  others  pass  by  heedlessly.  The  beauty 
of  the  poem  is  not  in  the  theme  but  in  the  poet's  power  to  pre- 
sent it. 

This  truth  can  be  convincingly  illustrated  by  reading  and 
comparing  good  and  bad  poems  on  the  same  subject.  Let  us 
read  and  compare  three  poems  on  the  same  theme,  the  mature 
woman  who  has  known  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  life  and  found  her 
serene  fulfillment.  Probably  the  three  men  who  wrote  these 
poems  had  felt  the  same  feeling.  Probably  they  had  the  same 
ideal  in  mind.  They  differ  from  one  another  in  their  skill  as  poets. 

The  first  stanzas  quoted  are  dull  and  prosy,  directly  stated 
abstractions.  We  are  willing  to  believe  that  the  worthy  woman 
Roscoe  Gilmore  Stott  describes  has  lived  a  worthy  life  and 
merits  praise.  But  we  do  not  care.  We  are  not  interested. 

THE  STRONG  WOMAN 

Somehow  her  very  delicacy  was  strength, 
With  which  she  met  the  tempest-tide  of  life; 

Frail  craft  that  did  not  fear  the  journey's  length 
Nor  dread  the  billow's  strife. 

Somehow  her  gentle  tenderness  was  pow'r, 

With  which  she  did  the  larger  task  alone; — 
Frail  toiler  fashioned  for  the  leisure  hour, 
^  sturQy  workman  grown. 

Somehow  her  unfeigned  purity  was  rule, 
With  which  she  wrought  in  meek  yet  regal  mien; — \ 

Frail  monarch  acting  as  her  Maker's  tool — 
Unknown,  uncrowned,  unseen! 

Hundreds  of  verses  like  this  are  written  daily.  It  does  no 
harm  provided  no  one  is  led  to  suppose  that  they  are  poetry. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  213 

This  particular  set  of  verses  is  not  even  clearly  thought  and 
phrased.  We  notice  that  the  lady  changes  incredibly  from  line 
to  line.  In  the  first  stanza  she  is  a  "frail  craft,"  in  the  second 
a  "'frail  toiler"  and  a  "sturdy  workman,"  in  the  third  a  "frail 
monarch"  and  her  "Maker's  tool."  Imagine  a  tool  that  is 
"unknown,  uncrowned,  unseen."  Note  the  silly  spelling  of 
"power,"  the  redundancy  of  "gentle  tenderness,"  the  tiresome 
triteness  of  the  use  of  the  symbol  chosen  for  life",  the  tempest, 
and  the  triteness  of  the  rhymes.  This  all  indicates  inability. 
Mr.  Stott  has  not  made  a  poem.  But  that  is  not  the  fault  of  the 
theme  chosen. 

Scudder  Middleton  has  made  a  poem  out  of  the  same  theme. 
It  is  written  quietly  and  sincerely,  in  good  English,  with  no  ab- 
surdities and  incongruities.  It  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  a  real 
personality  and  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  the  woman  described.  It 
is  called  "A  Woman." 

A  WOMAN 

She  had  an  understanding  with  the  years; 

For  always  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  light 

As  though  she  kept  a  secret  none  might  guess — 

Some  confidence  that  Time  had  made  her  heart. 

So  calmly  did  she  bear  the  weight  of  pain, 

With  such  serenity  accept  the  joy, 

It  seemed  she  had  a  mother  love  for  life, 

And  all  the  days  were  children  at  her  breast. 

But  even  better  than  this  poem  is  Joseph  Campbell's  lyric, 
"The  Old  Woman/'  In  it  not  a  word  embarrasses  the  meaning. 
Every  line  fits  into  a  perfect  picture  wmcn  trie  poet  has  freshly 
seen  and  felt  and  presented.  The  symbolism  is  strongjmd  true. 
The  melody  jives. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN 

As  a  white  candle 

In  a  holy  place, 
So  is  the  beauty 

Of  an  aged  face. 


214  NEW  VOICES 

As  the  spent  radiance 

Of  the  winter  sun, 
So  is  a  woman 

With  her  travail  done, 

Her  brood  gone  from  her, 

And  her  thoughts  as  still 
As  the  waters 

Under  a  ruined  mill. 

In  these  three  poems,  I  think,  we  can  all  see  clearly  that  it  is 
the  poet  who  gives  value  to  the  poem.  And  the  natural  corollary 
ci  this  idea  is  the  belief  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  "  poetic 
subject."  We  are  sometimes  told,  even  yet,  that  stars  and 
flowers  are  poetic,  that  kings  and  gods  are  poetic,  but  that  men's 
labors  and  creations  and  the  plain  things  of  the  earth  are  not 
poetic.  A  few  dogmatic  persons  still  tell  us  that  poets  should 
write  about  the  past  and  about  the  traditions  of  the  past,  that 
they  should  never  write  about  the  crude  and  unassimilated 
present.  Such  persons  bristle  with  other  "  shoulds  "  and  "  should 
nots."  But  poets  are  not  likely  to  be  greatly  influenced  by 
their  opinions.  £or  good  poets  of  to-day,  like  good  poets  of 
ill  time,  be^in  their  work  of  creation  wherever  they  touch  life 

ost  closely.    They  build  no  partition  between  themselves  and 


:very  day.  And  although  this  fact  is  sometimes  responsible 
or  much  that  is  bizarre  and  awkward,  sordid  and  trivial,  in  the 
esser  work  of  the  minor  poets,  it  is  responsible,  also,  for  the 
soundness  and  vigor,  the  fearless  truth,  keen  irony,  and  brilliant 
)eauty  of  our  best  poetry. 

In  our  times  the  poet's  choice  of  themes  has  been  much  in- 
fluenced by  the  growth  of  the  spirit  of  democracy  in  the  world. 
../A  real  poet  is  not  a  dilettante,  an  onlooker,  but  a  full-fledged 
human  being.  He  shares  the  spiritual  life  of  his  times.  If  we 
remember  the  Iliad,  we  remember  that  only  one  poor  man 
was  personally  and  individually  mentioned  in  it,  the  wretch, 
Thersites,  who  was  not  favored  of  gods  or  men  because  he  was 
neither  beautiful  nor  good  as  were  the  heroes  of  Greek  story. 
This,  undoubtedly,  was  because  the  Homeric  poets  lived  in  a 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  215 

civilization  that  worshipped  leaders,  heroes,  kings,  gods.  These 
great  men  were  symbols  of  the  achievement  of  the  race.  Poetry 
was  for  them  and  about  them.  But  we  no  longer  worship  the 
strength  that  subdues  the  many  to  the  selfish  purposes  of  the  few. 
English  poetry,  from  the  beginning,  has  kept  on  growing  stronger 
and  stronger  in  the  spirit  of  democracy.  And  Walt  Whitman^ 
our  American  tidal  wave  of  democracy,  swept  our  beachelTcIear 
of  the  refuse  of  old  preferences.  In  the  old  days  poets  sang  of 
the  princess  in  the  tower,  the  paragon  of  beauty,  the  great  lady 
of  the  court.  To-day  they  are  not  ashamed  to  sing  of  little  Miss 
Stitcher,  the  seamstress;  of  Mrs.  Suds,  the  woman  who  takes 
in  washing;  of  Polly  Cornfields,  wife  of  an  Iowa  farmer.  For 
to-day  all  of  these  women  are  princesses.  In  the  common  wo- 
man of  to-day  the  modern  poet  sees  the  Madonna.  The  poets  of 
old  sang  of  murdering  knights  and  picturesque  highwaymen. 
To-day  poets  sing  of  Timothy  Green  and  John  Ledger  and  Tom 
Sugar,  the  ordinary  men  who  went  "over  there."  They  have 
found  knighthood  in  the  common  man.  Indeed,  that  witty 
critic,  William  Crary  Brownell,  seems  to  think  that  the  reaction 
in  favor  of  democracy  has  influenced  literature  too  strongly. 
He  complains  that  poets  who  are  not  "adoring  the  golden  calf" 
are  "incensing  the  under  dog." 

Now  it  should  be  understood  that  this  broad,  democratic 
interest  in  everybody  which  modern  poets  manifest  is  not,  a.  pnsp. 
Poets  who  write  adequately  about  our  workaday  world  are  not 
well-to-do  young  persons  who  have  made  a  few  excursions  into 
the  slums  to  "see  life"  and  are  returning  to  share  the  piquant 
proletarian  excitement  with  the  upper  classes.  Verse-makers 
of  that  kind  we  have.  They  were  fashionable  five  or  ten  years 
ago.  But  their  work  is  negligible  for  it  never  rings  true.  Poets 
who  write  convincingly  of  the  brave  life  of  the  great  masses  of 
mankind,  and  of  the  sharp  pains  of  poverty,  have  learned  their 
speech  in  the  world  of  poverty  and  of  the  people.  And  although 
modern  philanthropists  sometimes  patronize  the  poor,  modern 
poets  do  not. 

In  that  large  and  vigorous  poem,  "The  Man  With  The  Hoe," 


216  NEW  VOICES 

we  find  no  condescension.  Mr.  Markham  is  not  a  polite  and 
gentlemanly  person,  standing  a  little  apart  from  his  kind  and 
wondering  why  the  poor  are  often  dirty  and  sometimes  ugly. 
He  knows  that  the  bodies  of  the  humble  sometimes  reveal  the 
spiritual  shortcomings  of  the  proud  and  the  great.  The  whole 
poem,  which  is  so  well  known  that  I  need  not  quote  it,  is  a  tre- 
mendous protest  against  the  black  causes  of  poverty  and  ugliness. 
Vachel  Lindsay,  who  travelled  across  the  continent,  "afoot 
and  light  hearted,"  trading  his  poems  for  bread  and  a  night's 
lodging  in  the  homes  of  the  poor,  shows  an  understanding  of 
poverty  which  is  just  as  keen  and  intimate  in  its  own  way.  To 
him  the  pity  of  it  all,  the  sorrow  of  sorrows  is 

"Not  that  they  starve,  but  starve  so  dreamlessly, 
Not  that  they  sow,  but  that  they  seldom  reap, 
Not  that  they  serve,  but  have  no  gods  to  serve, 
Not  that  they  die,  but  that  they  die  like  sheep." 

Louis  Untermeyer  is  another  poet  who  has  spoken  bravely 
agaTnst  the^oppTe^slon  of  the  poor.  If  it  were  not  for  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Untermeyer  uses  regularly  stressed  rhythms  and  oc- 
casional rhymes,  and  is  a  maker  of  fine  symmetrical  patterns 
in  poetry,  one  might  almost  classify  him  with  the  humanitarian 
radicals.  For  his  thought  is  radical  enough,  and  humanitarian 
enough.  But  he  is  never  the  orator,  when  he  writes  verse,  al- 
ways the  poet,  even  in  his  most  impassioned  protests  against 
what  he  conceives  to  be  injustice.  In  one  of  his  short  poems  he 
identifies  himself  spiritually,  and  for  the  purposes  of  the  poem, 
with  the  miners  about  whom  he  is  writing.  In  this  way,  by 
dramatizing  his  emotions  and  putting  himself  in  the  other  man's 
place,  he  succeeds  in  giving  us  a  subjective  lyric  through  which 
the  soul  of  a  miner  speaks: 

"  God,  we  don't  like  to  complain — 
We  know  that  the  mine  is  no  lark — 

But — there's  the  pools  from  the  rain; 
But— there's  the  cold  and  the  dark." 

"Caliban  In  The  Coal  Mines"  is  memorable. 


.,-/ 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  217 

A  poem  which  is  not  directly  concerned  with  the  problem  of 
poverty,  but  which  belongs  most  decidedly  to  the  spirit  of 
brotherhood  and  democracy,  is  Witter  Bynner's  beautiful  long 
poem,  "The  New  World."  It  is  expressive  of  a  strange  pre- 
science of  immortality  and  of  a  belief  in  the  communion  of 
saints.  Mr.  Bynner  brings  the  light  of  the  spirit  of  democracy 
to  focus  in  the  beautiful  personality  of  one  woman,  Celia. 

"Once  when  we  broke  a  loaf  of  bread 

And  shared  the  honey,  Celia  said: 

'To  share  all  beauty  as  the  interchanging  dust, 

To  be  akin  and  kind  and  to  entrust 

All  men  to  one  another  for  their  good, 

Is  to  have  heard  and  understood, 

And  carried  to  the  common  enemy 

In  you  and  me, 

The  ultimatum  of  democracy.'" 

Qarl  Sandburg,  when  he  is  not  the  orator  making  eloquent 
protests  and  demanding  action,  sometimes  makes  marvellously 
good  little  poems  out  of  the  thought  that  since  we  must  all  soon 
find  places  in  the  great  democracy  of  the  dead,  where  rich  and 
poor,  tyrant  and  slave,  become  one  thing,  dust,  it  would  be  well 
to  bring  more  of  the  spirit  of  democratic  loving-kindness  into 
life.  No  other  poet  has  taken  just  this  way  of  pointing  us  toward 
democracy  by  writing  about  death.  For  that  reason  we  are  the 
more  interested.  Mr.  Sandburg  does  it  again  and  again.  In 
"Cool  Tombs"  Mr.  Sandburg  tells  us  what  Abraham  Lincoln 
and  Ulysses  S.  Grant  forgot  "in  the  dust,  in  the  cool  tombs." 
Then  he  says,  "Take  any  streetful  of  people,"  and  he  asks  "  if 
any  get  more  than  the  lovers"  "in  the  dust  ...  in  the  cool 
tombs."  Similarly,  speaking  of  John  Brown's  grave,  he  says, 
"  Room  for  Gettysburg,  Wilderness,  Chickamauga,  on  a  six 
foot  stage  of  dust."  And  again  in  his  terse  poem,  "Southern 
Pacific,"  he  tells  how  Huntington,  the  great  railroad  man,  now 
"sleeps  in  a  house  six  feet  long,"  dreaming  of  ten  thousand  men 
saying,  "  Yes,  sir;  "  and  how  Blithery,  one  of  the  ten  thousand, 


2i8  NEW  VOICES 

now  sleeps  "in  a  house  six  feet  long,*'  and  dreams  of  saying 
"Yes,  sir ; "  to  Huntington.  Then  he  closes  with  these  words, 

"Huntington, 

Blithery,  sleep  in  houses  six  feet  long." 

In  "Illinois  Farmer"  Mr.  Sandburg  says,  "Bury  this  Illinois 
farmer  with  respect,"  and  he  describes  the  farmer's  long,  epic 
struggle  with  the  prairie  wind.  The  description  is  brief,  concise. 
Then  says  Mr.  Sandburg, 

"The  same  wind  will  now  blow  over  the  place  here  where  his  hands 
must  dream  of  Illinois  corn." 

Again  the  idea  is  phrased  with  more  lyrical  magic  in  the  lines 
from  "Loam"  which  say, 

"We  stand  then 

To  a  whiff  of  life, 
Lifted  to  the  silver  of  the  sun 
Over  and  out  of  the  loam 

A  day." 

When  nothing  else  will  bring  democracy  to  men  the  thought  of 
death  will  bring  it. 

In  his  dramatic  poem,  "The  Operation,"  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gib- 
son shows  us  how  the  poor  face  the  thought  of  pain  and  death. 
It  is  about  a  woman  who  lived  years  with  a  cancer  in  her  body 
rather  than  tell  her  husband  and  go  to  the  expense  of  having  an 
operation.  Her  father  had  died  of  the  disease  and  she  knew  it. 
She  suffered  excruciating  pain.  But  she  said  nothing,  nothing  at 
all,  until  her  little  daughter  was  old  enough  to  make  a  home  for 
her  father.  Then  the  wife  went  to  the  doctor.  That  is  the  story. 
It  is  told  as  a  dialogue  between  husband  and  wife  after  the  visit 
to  the  doctor.  The  husband  says, 

"Eleven  years!    And  never  breathed  a  word, 
Nor  murmured  once,  but  patiently  ..." 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  219 

The  wife  answers, 

"I  come  of  fisherfolk,  who  live  on  patience. 

It's  little  use  for  any  man 

To  be  impatient  with  the  sea." 

The  same  spirit  is  manifested  in  the  work  of  many  another 
contemporary  poet.  Margaret  Widdemer  sings  of  "The  Old 
Suffragist"  and  takes  upon  herself,  as  a  representative  of  happy 
womanhood,  a  grim  load  of  responsibility  for  the  sins  committed 
in  factories.  And  yet  she  is  a  conservative  poet  in  thought  and 
style.  James  Oppenheim,  a  poet  as  radical  as  Margaret  Widde- 
mer is  conservative,  takes  the  realities  of  the  common  life  in  a 
great  city  and  makes  a  luminous  picture  of  them.  His  "  Satur- 
day Night"  was  written  while  he  was  a  young  poet  and  before  his 
work  was  well  known.  He  no  longer  likes  it,  but  other  people  do. 
"Saturday  Night"  tells  the  story  of  the  happy,  nonchalant 
evening  that  comes  only  once  a  week  to  workers  in  great  cities. 
Every  stanza  is  beautiful.  It  must  suffice,  here,  to  quote  only 
two. 

"The  lights  of  Saturday  night  beat  golden,  golden  over  the  pillared 

street— 
The  long  plate-glass  of  a  Dream- World  olden  is  as  the  footlights 

shining  sweet — 
Street-lamp — flambeau — glamour  of  trolley — comet-trail  of  the  trains 

above, 
Splash  where  the  jostling  crowds  are  jolly  with  echoing  laughter  and 

human  love. 

"This  is  the  City  of  the  Enchanted:  and  these  are  her  Enchanted 

People: 
Far  and  far  is  Daylight,  haunted  with  whistle  of  mill  and  bell  of 

steeple — 
The  Eastern  tenements  loose  the  women,  the  Western  flats  release  the 

wives 

To  touch,  where  all  the  ways  are  common,  a  glory  to  their  sweated 
'      lives." 


220  NEW  VOICES 

Out  of  a  very  passionate  love  of  the  great  industrial  city,  which, 
in  spite  of  its  sharp,  tragic  contrasts  of  riches  and  poverty,  good 
and  evil,  all  true  moderns  feel,  have  come  many  of  the  best 
\  and  most  beautiful  of  the  songs  of  democracy. 
\  \  JBut  of  all  modern  poets  of  the  people  John  Maseneld  is  prob- 
\  \  ably  the  greatest.  His  story  is  no  longer  new,  for  journalists 
\  \have  told  it  often — the  story  of  a  young  peer  of  Chaucer,  in- 
\jdentured  to  a  sea-captain  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  when  dreams 
were  mighty,  and  sent  out  upon  the  great  sea-paths  of  the  world 
to  use  the  holystone  upon  foul  decks  and  to  do  his  trick  with  the 
rest;  the  story  of  the  man  in  him  loving  the  salt  taste  of  adven- 
ture; the  story  of  the  poet  in  him  grown  restless,  demanding 
more  than  the  "wash  and  thresh"  of  the  sea  foam,  and  bringing 
him,  twenty-five  years  ago,  to  this  country  of  ours,  where,  he 
had  heard,  a  man  might  become  what  he  liked;  the  story  of  his 
quest  for  that  which  he  needed  and  of  the  bizarre  but  not  mean- 
ingless trick  which  Fate  played  in  letting  him  become,  for  a 
time,  an  assistant  to  a  New  York  bar-keeper;  the  story  of  his 
return  to  England  and  of  the  publication  of  "The  Everlasting 
Mercy"  in  1911,  of  the  strong  chorus  of  acclaim  that  greeted 
it  and  of  the  fame  blown  as  far  as  the  sea  winds  he  had  loved  and 
learned  to  celebrate.  It  is  an  old  story,  this  story  of  John  Mase- 
neld, but  it  is  a  great  story,  and  will  become  a  great  tradition, 
for  it  is  the  life  story  of  a  master  of  the  English  speech,  of  the 
greatest  living  poet  of  the  people. 

Such  words  as  "  great })  are  not  used  with  glib  frequency  by 
those  to  whom  words  are  sacred,  but,  because  they  are  light 
upon  the  lips  of  many  persons  who  have  no  part  in  the  love  of 
sincere  meanings,  it  becomes  necessary,  sometimes,  to  make  the 
use  of  them  go  hand  in  hand  with  a  definition.  Therefore,  to 
say  that  John  Maseneld  is  a  great  poet  is  to  say  that  he  has  much 
of  Chaucer's  gift  of  catching  and  sharing  the  flavor  of  persons 
and  circumstances,  much  of  the  delicate  perception  of  beauty 
that  was  in  Keats,  much  of  the  color  of  Coleridge  and  the  plain 
earth-wisdom  of  Burns,  much,  even,  of  the  sap  and  savor  of 
life  that  was  the  power  in  Shakespeare.  He  has,  moreover,  a 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES     221 

music  of  his  own,  and  a  sense  of  the  significance  of  things,  which, 
because  it  is  modern,  is  more  profound  and  searching  in  its  own 
way  than  any  philosophy  of  earlier  times.  The  world  has  lived 
and  died  many  times  since  the  days  of  Chaucer,  and  has  known 
many  resurrections.  John  Masefield  has  shared  the  life  and 
death  and  the  rising  again  into  light. 

Since  Chaucer's  day  the  love  and  fear  of  potentates  has  been  a 
dying  cult.  To-day  no  man  seems  splendid  because  he  wears 
purple.  A  belief  in  the  heroism  and  beauty  of  the  common 
people  has  lightened  perceptibly  the  blear  darkness  of  the 
modern  world.  This  growing  faith  in  the  people  has  been  choked 
off  again  and  again  by  greed  and  violence,  but  it  can  never  be 
held  by  death.  Always  it  breaks  free  of  the  dark  bondage  and 
comes  back  stronger  than  ever.  And,  even  before  the  great  war 
brought  us  a  new  sense  of  values,  in  a  country  that  worshipped 
prosperity,  many  of  us  knew  that  no  real  hero  will  hew  his  way 
to  success  unless  he  can  do  it  with  a  sword  as  clean  as  Excalibur. 

In  the  poetry  of  John  Masefield  all  the  light  of  this  belief 
shines  proudly.  Over  and  over  again,  in  ringing  words,  words 
as  clean  as  silver,  firm  as  bronze,  and  ruddy  as  gold,  he  tells  his 
times  the  value  of  that  which  was  once  called  valueless.  He  is 
the  spokesman  of  all  defeats  that  have  been  better  than  vic- 
tories, of  all  good  losers  who  have  been  a  gain  to  the  race,  of  the 
weak  and  the  poor  and  the  humble  whose  bodies  and  souls  have 
built  stairs  by  which  the  strong  might  climb.  For  he  knows 
that  under  the  old  systems  of  the  past  only  a  few  could  achieve 
a  rich  reward,  a  shining  victory.  He  is  the  bard  of  the  scientist 
who,  for  forty  years,  will  study  the  legs  of  one  insect,  that  a  later 
scientist,  profiting  by  his  painfully  acquired  knowledge,  may 
make  a  great  discovery.  He  is  the  bard  of  other  failures,  of  the 
terrible  spawn  of  life  that  we  so  little  understand — the  sinner 
of  the  kind  externally  and  obviously  and  vulgarly  sinful — the 
sinner  from  whom  most  of  us  run  away,  with  whom  Christ 
remained.  Such  sinners  are  presented  to  us  in  poems  like  "  The 
Everlasting  Mercy"  with  such  an  amazing  power  that  we  think 
no  more  of  the  printed  page  and  forget  that  the  story  is  a  written 


222  NEW  VOICES 

one  which  we  have  read.  Having  shared  a  master's  under- 
standing and  devotion,  we  suppose  that  we  have  been  a  part  of 
the  tale. 

Not  once,  but  many  times,  does  Mr.  Masefield  tell  his  story  of  i 
.pomp  discredited, ^of  valor  and  beauty  trinrppha.r|t  in  renunJQJa- 1 
^km  and  apparent  Defeat.    This  is  the  underlying  theme  of  his 
great  book  about  the  war,  "Gallipoli,"  a  glorious  epic  in  prose, 
a  book  to  make  even  jaded  reviewers  and  sophisticated  critics 
weep.    It  is  the  underlying  theme  of  his  great  tale,  "Dauber." 
It  is  everywhere  in  his  narratives,  like  an  immeasureable  exten- 
sion of  Browning's  thought, 

"What  I  aspired  to  be 
And  was  not,  comforts  me." 

Mr.  Masefield  does  more  than  tell  stories  that  illustrate  his 
great  theme.  He  does  what  lesser  poets  could  not  do  without 
becoming  verbose  and  tiresome.  He  states  the  belief,  formulates 
the  credo  of  the  new  democracy.  He  sets  it  to  work  in  the  minds 
of  his  readers,  like  ferment.  It  is  suggested  tacitly  or  sounded 
clearly  in  nearly  everything  that  he  writes.  It  becomes  resonant 
in  that  powerful  lyric  called  "A  Consecration"  in  which  John 
Masefield  takes  the  poor  and  the  outcast  to  be  his  own  people, 
and  dedicates  to  them  his  life  and  his  songs.  It  is  a  poem  which 
can  hardly  be  quoted  too  often. 

"Not  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged  charioteers 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap  the  fat  of  the  years, 
Rather  the  scorned — the  rejected — the  men  hemmed  in  with  the 
spears; 


"  Theirs  be  the  music,  the  color,  the  glory,  the  gold; 

Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 

Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the  cold — 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tale  be  told.    Amen." 

To  pass  on  from  the  love  of  man,  as  we  find  it  in  poetry,  to 
the  love  of  the  things  that  man  has  made  and  done,  as  they  are 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  223 

celebrated  in  the  poems  of  our  time,  is  to  take  but  a  short  step. 
The  spirit  of  democracy  hafi  frmhlpH  many  pf)ets  to  find  a  new 
Jdnd  of  beauty  in  industrial  civilization.  It  is  not  the  beauty 
of  stars  and  flowers,  but  the  beauty  of  streets  deep-cut  between 
heights  of  honeycombed  steel  and  concrete,  streets  like  canyons 
through  which  flow  the  streams  of  life  and  deeds.  The  great 
industrial  city  is  a  new  thing  upon  the  earth,  but  already  poets 
have  sung  the  songs  of  skyscraper  and  subway,  of  seemingly 
endless  miles  of  lighted  windows  at  night,  of  the  sun  twinkling 
on  thousands  of  flat  roofs  all  day;  they  have  sung  the  songs  of 
great  machines  which  are  to  our  times  what  "  the  hanging  gar- 
dens of  Babylon"  and  the  pyramids  were  to  antiquity;  they  have 
sung  the  great  creations  of  machines,  the  great  engineering  feats 
of  the  day.  Most  notable  among  poems  of  this  kind  are  "The 
Steam  Shovel,"  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  and  "The  Turbine"  and 
"Our  Canal,"  by  Harriet  Monroe. 

In  the  opening  lines  of  Mrs.  Tietjens'  poem  is  the  great  declara- 
tive sentence  of  modernity  which  states  man's  triumph  over 
nature. 

"  Beneath  my  window  in  a  city  street 
A  monster  lairs,  a  creature  huge  and  grim 
And  only  half  believed :  the  strength  of  him — 
Steel-strung  and  fit  to  meet 
The  strength  of  earth- 
Is  mighty  as  men's  dreams  that  conquer  force." 

Harriet  Monroe's  "The  Turbine"  is  somewhat  more  elabor- 
ate and  less  direct,  for  in  it  she  dramatizes  the  emotions  of  the 
man  who  manages  the  turbine.  Great  machinery  always  makes 
strangers  in  a  factory  grip  themselves  hard.  It  makes  them  tense 
with  a  peculiar  emotion.  That  tense  emotion  is  here. 

"Look — if  I  but  lay  a  wire 
Across  the  terminals  of  yonder  switch 
She'll  burst  her  windings,  rip  her  casings  off, 
And  shriek  till  envious  Hell  shoots  up  its  flames, 
Shattering  her  very  throne." 


224  NEW  VOICES 

"Our  Canal"  is  more  idealistic  in  tone,  perhaps  because  it  is 
written  about  a  work  of  man's  doing,  rather  than  about  the 
machines  with  which  it  was  done.  The  poem  was  written  just 
after  the  completion  of  the  Panama  Canal,  at  a  time  when  we 
all  saw  a  vision  of  the  meeting  of  East  and  West  and  hoped  that 
the  canal  might  become  an  international  highway  to  permanent 
peace.  The  poem  is  rich  in  the  American  idealism  which  we 
shared  in  the  days  before  the  great  war  showed  us  that  the  goals 
of  peaceful  service  were  set  much  farther  away  than  we  supposed 
and  that  we  must  strive  longer  and  more  sternly  if  we  would 
reach  them.  "  Our  Canal "  is  a  valuable  revelation  of  American 
spiritual  life,  and  the  following  strophes,  with  which  it  ends, 
give  a  very  good  idea  of  the  meaning  of  the  whole. 

"'What  build  we  from  coast  to  coast? 
It's  a  path  for  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Oh,  To-morrow  and  Yesterday 
At  its  gate  clasp  hands,  touch  lips; 
We  shall  send  men  forth  in  ships 
To  find  the  perfect  way. 

'All  that  was  writ  shall  be  fulfilled  at  last. 
Come — till  we  round  the  circle,  end  the  story. 
The  west-bound  sun  leads  forward  to  the  past 
The  thundering  cruisers  and  the  caravels. 
To-morrow  you  shall  hear  our  song  of  glory 
Rung  in  the  chime  of  India's  temple  bells/ 

0  lazy  laughing  Panama! 

O  flutter  of  ribbon  'twixt  the  seas* 

Pirate  and  king  your  colors  wore 

And  stained  with  blood  your  golden  keys. 

Now  what  strange  guest,  on  what  mad  quest, 

Lifts  up  your  trophy  to  the  breeze! 

0  Panama,  O  ribbon-twist 

That  ties  the  continents  together, 

Now  East  and  West  shall  slip  your  tether 

And  keep  their  ancient  tryst!  " 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  225 

If  the  poets  who  write  about  the  industrial  world  were  all 
romanticists  ready  to  cast  a  glamour  over  facts,  we  should  not 
hear  of  any  opposition  to  their  belief  that  any  subject  may  be  a 
subject  for  a  poem.  They  might  write  about  guttering  candles 
or  about  the  Pleiades  with  the  same  certainty  that  they  would 
have  the  enthusiasm  of  many  readers  and  the  somnolent  negli- 
gence of  others  for  their  reward.  But  many  modern  poets  are 

bring  into  goefry 
[elements      ugliness  to  which  admirers  of  the  Victorian  poetslifg" 
[quite~unaccustomecn The  modern  poet^s  reasons  for  giving 
(ugliness  a  place  in  poetry  should  be  explained,  therefore,  so 
that  they  need  not  be  misunderstood. 

Ugliness  is  very  likely  to  be  revealed  in  all  modern  poetry 
of  a  realistic  kind  which  describes  and  shares  life  in  which  ugli- 
ness is  found.  The  ugliness  is  in  the  poetry  simply  because  the 
poet  is  sincere.  He  will  not  falsify  values.  No  good  poet  loves 
ugliness  for  its  own  sake.  But  good  poets  do  believe  that  ugli- 
ness, brought  into  poetry  in  its  right  relationships  and  because 
it  is  found  in  the  life  presented,  is  to  poetry  what  occasional 
discords  are  to  music;  and  therefore  no  discussion  of  the  spirit 
of  contemporary  poetry  is  complete  without  mention  of  the  ele- 
ment of  ugliness. 

To  be  sure,  ugliness  is  no  new  thing  in  literature.  Isaiah  and 
Jeremiah  were  not  afraid  of  it.  They  were  very  bold  in  their 
descriptive  denunciations  of  moral  evil  and  the  symbols  they 
used  were  strong  and  ugly  symbols.  Shakespeare  permitted 
his  characters  the  horrid  delight  of  using  very  ugly  language  as 
occasion  demanded.  They  availed  themselves  of  this  privilege 
with  a  glee  and  abandon  almost  unparalleled  in  the  works 
of  the  moderns.  Only  a  very  naughty  small  boy  can  call  names 
with  the  gusto  of  Shakespeare.  Milton,  stately  poet  of  the 
sublime  style,  was  not  too  nice  and  finicky  to  describe  the  horrors 
of  the  supposititious  Hell  in  the  life  to  come.  Even  the  chil- 
dren in  high  schools  know  very  well  that  he  enjoyed  creating 
the  character  of  Satan.  The  poets  of  to-day  are  simply  return- 
ing to  these  old  ways  of  the  poets,  remembering  the  old  tradi- 


I 


226  NEW  VOICES 

tions,  when  they  describe  in  an  ugly,  but  truthful  way,  the  real 
little  hells  that  we  have  near  us  here  and  now.  They  are  show- 
ing us  that  the  whole  of  life  belongs  to  poetry.  They  are  not 
picking  out  pretty  bits  of  life  for  exploitation,  forgetful  of  all  the 
rest.  Post- Victorian  versifiers  had  eliminated  ugliness. and j^y en 
when  they  wrote  about  sin  they  did  not  make  it  seem  ugly. 
The  poet  of  to-day  believes  that  this  is  a  mischievous  way  to 
write.  Poets  should  not  write  covertly.  They  should  notjnake 

any  kind  of  Ugliness  *Pem    spnnnl-h   *nd   pretty  anH   rnrrmjitir. 

That  is  why  our  best  moderns  sometimes  seem  like  careful  house- 
wives running  around  after  the  charwoman,  Civilization,  merci- 
lessly pointing  out  the  dust  that  she  has  left  hidden  in  cracks  and 
corners. 

Now  so  long  as  the  poet  keeps  a  sense  of  the  proportion  that 
should  exist  between  beauty  and  ugliness,  so  long  as  he  does  not 
succumb  to  a  pathological  pleasure  in  the  portrayal  of  unlove- 
liness,  the  clear-eyed  recognition  of  it  is  good  for  him  and  for 
his  readers.  But  a  reaction  against  Puritan  repressions  and 
against  Victorian  smoothness  and  prudery  has  carried  a  fsw 
moderns  of  the  radical  schools  too  far  toward  ugliness.  Such 
poems  as  seem  to  glorify  and  show  pleasure  in  dirt,^isease,  sin, 
morbidity,  animality,  abnormality  are  not  great  poetry  no 
matter  how  cleverly  they  may  be  written.  It  is  natural,  cer- 
tainly, to  turn  from  a  cloying  diet  of  too  much  angel  cake  to 
the  refreshing  and  zestful  pickle.  The  pickle,  however,  can 
be  too  strong  and  strange,  or  there  can  be  too  many  pickles. 

A  poet  may  turn  away  from  any  ism  or  ology,but  why  should 
he  turn  away  from  beauty?  There  are  many  new  kinds  of 
beauty  yet  to  be  made.  Why  should  William  Carlos  Williams, 
who  has  written  "The  Shadow,"  "Peace  On  Earth"  and  other 
tolerably  good  poems,  be  guilty  of  lines  like  the  following,  which, 
of  course,  are  not  poetry? 

"You  exquisite  chunk  of  mud, 
Kathleen  —  just  like 
Any  other  chunk  of  mud 
—  especially  in  April." 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  227 

But  such  ugliness  as  can  be  found  in  "The  Widow  In  the  Bye 
Street"  or  "The  Everlasting  Mercy,"  or  is  inherent  in  the  realis- 
tic narratives  of  Mr.  Gibson  because  it  is  inherent  in  the  life 
described,  such  ugliness  as  makes  characters  real  in  plays  like 
Mr.  Bottomley's  "King  Lear's  Wife,"  or  serves  to  point  an 
irony  in  the  direction  of  truth  as  in  certain  poems  by  Rupert 
Brooke,  such  ugliness,  in  short,  as  insures  quick  recognition  of 
itself  and  a  sharp  reaction,  such  ugliness  as  exists  in  its  own  true 
relations  to  life  and  for  the  sake  of  the  larger  beauty  which  in- 
cludes it,  is  tonic  and  stimulating  and  a  vitalizing  force  in 
poetry. 


\ 


The  poet  of  to-day  takes  from  life  anything  which  interest 
\  him  and  makes  it  the  theme  of  a  poem.He  knows  that  he  can 


1  never  write  well  about  anything  which  does  not  interest  hirr 
keenly]    Therefore,  no  matter  howgreat  and  noble  a  theme  ma) 


he  can  not  react  toward  it  with  fresh  and  vitalizing  emo- 
tion, he  will  say  nothing  about  it.  For  one  man  may  write  wel 
about  an  organ  grinder  on  the  corner  although  he  is  bored 
Phoebus  Apollo.  And  the  lights  and  shadows  on  the  wall  of  a 
cheese  factory  may  be  more  beautiful  to  another  poet  than  an 
imagined  sunset  in  Athens.  The  poet  realizes,  of  course,  that 
he  shows  his  interests  and  enthusiasms  and  reveals  himself 
through  them  whenever  he  writes  a  poem.  And  he^knows  that 
fcis^wji  life  and  personality  determine  his  choices.  But  he  knows 
also,  that  in  spite  of  literary  fashions,  which  change  with  chang- 
ing times,  he  can  never  write  a  good  poem  who  does  not  feel  it 
first.  The  theme  must  be  the  spark  that  kindles  the  warmth  of 
his  emotion.  That  is  why  we  are  sometimes  tempted  to  believe 
that  the  contemporary  poet,  like  Peter  of  old,  has  heard  a  voice 
crying  from  Heaven,  "What  God  hath  cleansed  that  call  not 
thou  common."  For  he  seems  to  have  accepted  all  of  life,  with 
its  ugliness  as  well  as  its  beauty,  its  defeat  as  well  as  its  triumph. 
Having  accepted  life,  he  writes  with  fearless  sincerity. 


228  NEW  VOICES 


A  CONSECRATION 

Not  of  the  princes  and  prelates  with  periwigged  charioteers 
Riding  triumphantly  laurelled  to  lap  the  fat  of  the  years, 
Rather  the  scorned — the  rejected — the  men  hemmed  in  with  the 
spears; 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 

Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries, 

The  men  with  the  broken  heads  and  the  blood  running  into  their  eyes. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Commander,  beloved  of  the  throne, 
Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown, 
But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known. 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the  road, 

The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with  the  goad, 

The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load. 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout, 

The  chantyman  bent  at  the  halliards  putting  a  tune  to  the  shout, 

The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel  and  the  tired  lookout. 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the  mirth, 

The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth; — 

Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the  earth! 

Theirs  be  the  music,  the  color,  the  glory,  the  gold; 

Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 

Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the  cold — 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tale  be  told.    Amen. 

John  Masefield 

THE  LEADEN-EYED 

Let  not  young  souls  be  smothered  out  before 
They  do  quaint  deeds  and  fully  flaunt  their  pride. 
It  is  the  world's  one  crime  its  babes  grow  dull, 
Its  poor  are  ox-like,  limp  and  leaden-eyed. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  229 

Not  that  they  starve,  but  starve  so  dreamlessly, 
Not  that  they  sow,  but  that  they  seldom  reap, 
Not  that  they  serve,  but  have  no  gods  to  serve, 
Not  that  they  die,  but  that  they  die  like  sheep. 

Vachel  Lindsay 


CALIBAN  IN  THE  COAL  MINES 

God,  we  don't  like  to  complain — 

We  know  that  the  mine  is  no  lark — 
But — there's  the  pools  from  the  rain; 

But — there's  the  cold  and  the  dark. 

God,  You  don't  know  what  it  is — 

You,  in  Your  well-lighted  sky, 
Watching  the  meteors  whizz; 

Warm,  with  the  sun  always  by. 

God,  if  You  had  but  the  moon 

Stuck  in  Your  cap  for  a  lamp, 
Even  You'd  tire  of  it  soon, 

Down  in  the  dark  and  the  damp. 

Nothing  but  blackness  above, 

And  nothing  that  moves  but  the  cars — 

God,  if  You  wish  for  our  love, 
Fling  us  a  handful  of  stars! 

Louis  Untermeyer 


THE  COMMON  STREET 

The  common  street  climbed  up  against  the  sky, 
Gray  meeting  gray;  and  wearily  to  and  fro 
I  saw  the  patient,  common  people  go, 
Each  with  his  sordid  burden  trudging  by. 
And  the  rain  dropped ;  there  was  not  any  sigh 
Or  stir  of  a  live  wind;  dull,  dull  and  slow 
All  motion;  as  a  tale  told  long  ago 
The  faded  world;  and  creeping  night  drew  nigh. 


230  NEW  VOICES 

Then  burst  the  sunset,  flooding  far  and  fleet, 
Leavening  the  whole  of  life  with  magic  leaven. 
Suddenly  down  the  long  wet  glistening  hill 
Pure  splendor  poured — and  lo !  the  common  street, 
A  golden  highway  into  golden  heaven, 
With  the  dark  shapes  of  men  ascending  still. 

Helen  Gray  Cone 

CHERRY  WAY 

Here,  before  the  better  streets  begin, 

Grimy  backs  of  buildings  wall  it  in, 

Strident  with  the  station's  endless  din, 

And  a  yoke 

Of  dun  smoke 

Makes  its  title  a  dull  joke. 

Time  was,  once,  long  fled,  when  this  slim  street 

Was  all  color-tremulous  and  sweet; 

When  the  Sygne-Poste  had  a  right  to  say 

"CherrieWaye," 

But  to-day 

It  is  palely  bleak  and  gray. 

Sometimes,  when  the  moon  is  riding  high, 

Whitely,  in  a  cold  and  cobalt  sky, 

From  beneath  their  ancient  graves  close  by, 

Shadowed  deep, 

Ladies  creep 

Here  to  wring  their  .hands  and  weep; 

Holding  up  the  flounced  and  flowered  skirt 

From  the  sordid  ugliness  and  dirt, 

With  faint  sighs  and  gesturings  of  hurt, 

As  to  say — 

"Lack-a-day! 

Can  thys  be  Oure  Cherrie  Waye?" 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  231 


BROADWAY 

How  like  the  stars  are  these  white,  nameless  faces — 

These  far  innumerable  burning  coals! 
This  pale  procession  out  of  stellar  spaces, 

This  Milky  Way  of  souls! 
Each  in  its  own  bright  nebulae  enfurled, 
Each  face,  dear  God,  a  world! 

I  fling  my  gaze  out  through  the  silent  night: 

In  those  far  stars,  what  gardens,  what  high  halls, 

Has  mortal  yearning  built  for  its  delight, 
What  chasms  and  what  walls? 

What  quiet  mansions  where  a  soul  may  dwell? 

What  heaven  and  what  hell? 

Hermann  Hagedorn 

THE  FLOWER  FACTORY 

Lisabetta,  Marianina,  Fiametta,  Teresina, 

They  are  winding  stems  of  roses,  one  by  one,  one  by  one, 

Little  children,  who  have  never  learned  to  play; 

Teresina  softly  crying  that  her  fingers  ache  to-day; 

Tiny  Fiametta  nodding  when  the  twilight  slips  in,  gray. 

High  above  the  clattering  street,  ambulance  and  fire-gong  beat, 

They  sit,  curling  crimson  petals,  one  by  one,  one  by  one. 

Lisabetta,  Marianina,  Fiametta,  Teresina, 

They  have  never  seen  a  rosebush  nor  a  dewdrop  in  the  sun. 

They  will  dream  of  the  vendetta,  Teresina,  Fiametta, 

Of  a  Black  Hand  and  a  face  behind  a  grating; 

They  will  dream  of  cotton  petals,  endless,  crimson,  suffocating, 

Never  of  a  wild-rose  thicket  nor  the  singing  of  a  cricket, 

But  the  ambulance  will  bellow  through  the  wanness  of  their  dreams, 

And  their  tired  lids  will  flutter  with  the  street's  hysteric  screams. 

Lisabetta,  Marianina,  Fiametta,  Teresina, 

They  are  winding  stems  of  roses,  one  by  one,  one  by  one. 

Let  them  have  a  long  long  playtime,  Lord  of  Toil,  when  toil  is  done, 

Fill  their  baby  hands  with  roses,  joyous  roses  of  the  sun! 

Florence  Wilkinson 


232  NEW  VOICES 

THE  TIME-CLOCK 


"Tick-Tock!    Tick-Tock!" 
Sings  the  great  time-clock. 
And  the  pale  men  hurry 
And  flurry  and  scurry 
To  punch  their  time 
Ere  the  hour  shall  chime. 
"Tick-tock!    Tick-tock!" 
Sings  the  stern  time-clock. 

"  It — is — time — you — were — come ! " 

Says  the  pendulum. 

"  Tick-tock !    Tick-tock ! " 

Moans  the  great  time-clock. 

They  must  leave  the  heaven 

Of  their  beds.  ...    It  is  seven, 

And  the  sharp  whistles  blow 

In  the  city  below. 

They  can  never  delay — 

If  they're  late,  they  must  pay. 

"God  help  them!  "I  say. 

But  the  great  time-clock 

Only  says,  "Tick-tock!" 

They  are  chained,  they  are  slaves 

From  their  birth  to  their  graves! 

And  the  clock 

Seems  to  mock 

With  its  awful  "tick-tock!" 

There  it  stands  at  the  door 

Like  a  brute,  as  they  pour 

Through  the  dark  little  way 

Where  they  toil  night  and  day. 

They  are  goaded  along 

By  the  terrible  song 

Of  whistle  and  gong, 

And  the  endless  "Tick-tock!" 

Of  the  great  time-clock. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  £33 

"Tick-tock!    Tick-tock!" 
Runs  the  voice  of  the  clock. 


n 

Some  day  it  will  cease! 
They  will  all  be  at  peace, 
And  dream  a  new  dream 
Far  from  shuttle  and  steam. 
And  whistles  may  blow, 
And  whistles  may  scream — 
They  will  smile — even  so, 
And  dream  their  new  dream. 

But  the  clock  will  tick  on 
When  their  bodies  are  gone; 
And  others  will  hurry, 
And  scurry  and  worry, 
While  "Tick-tock!    Tick-tock!" 
Whispers  the  clock. 

"Tick-tock!  Tick-tock! 
Tick-tock !  Tick-tock ! ' ' 
Forever  runs  on  the  song  of  the  clock! 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 


NIGHT'S  MARDI   GRAS 

Night  is  the  true  democracy.    When  day 

Like  some  great  monarch  with  his  train  has  passed, 
In  regal  pomp  and  splendor  to  the  last, 

The  stars  troop  forth  along  the  Milky  Way, 

A  jostling  crowd,  in  radiant  disarray, 
On  heaven's  broad  boulevard  in  pageants  vast. 
And  things  of  earth,  the  hunted  and  outcast, 

Come  from  their  haunts  and  hiding-places;  yea, 

Even  from  the  nooks  and  crannies  of  the  mind 
Visions  uncouth  and  vagrant  fancies  start, 
And  specters  of  dead  joy,  that  shun  the  light, 


234  NEW  VOICES 

And  impotent  regrets  and  terrors  blind, 

Each  one,  in  form  grotesque,  playing  its  part 
In  the  fantastic  Mardi  Gras  of  Night. 

Edward  J.  Wheeler 


THE  FUGITIVES 

We  are  they  that  go,  that  go, 
Plunging  before  the  hidden  blow. 
We  run  the  byways  of  the  earth, 
For  we  are  fugitive  from  birth, 
Blindfolded,  with  wide  hands  abroad 
That  sow,  that  sow  the  sullen  sod. 

We  cannot  wait,  we  cannot  stop 
For  flushing  field  or  quickened  crop; 
The  orange  bow  of  dusky  dawn 
Glimmers  our  smoking  swath  upon; 
Blindfolded  still  we  hurry  on. 

How  do  we  know  the  ways  we  run 
That  are  blindfolded  from  the  sun? 
We  stagger  swiftly  to  the  call, 
Our  wide  hands  feeling  for  the  wall. 

Oh,  ye  who  climb  to  some  clear  heaven, 
By  grace  of  day  and  leisure  given, 
Pity  us,  fugitive  and  driven — 
The  lithe  whip  curling  on  our  track, 
The  headlong  haste  that  looks  not  back! 

Florence  Wilkinson 


ROSES  IN  THE  SUBWAY* 

A  wan-cheeked  girl  with  faded  eyes 

Came  stumbling  down  the  crowded  car, 

Clutching  her  burden  to  her  breast 
As  though  she  held  a  star. 

*  Copyright,  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES     235 

Roses,  I  swear  it!  Red  and  sweet 
And  struggling  from  her  pinched  white  hands, 

Roses  .  .  .  like  captured  hostages 
From  far  and  fairy  lands! 

The  thunder  of  the  rushing  train 

Was  like  a  hush.  .  .  .  The  flower  scent 
Breathed  faintly  on  the  stale,  whirled  air 

Like  some  dim  sacrament — 

I  saw  a  garden  stretching  out 

And  morning  on  it  like  a  crown — 
And  o'er  a  bed  of  crimson  bloom 

My  mother  .  .  .  stooping  down. 

Dana  Burnet 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE* 

"God  created  man  in  his  own  image,  hi  the  image  of  God  created 
He  him." 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries,  he  leans 

Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 

The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face 

And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 

Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 

A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 

Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 

Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw? 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 

Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain? 

Is  this  the  thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  eternity? 

Is  this  the  dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 

And  marked  their  ways  upon  the  ancient  deep? 

*  Millet's  painting,  "  The  Man  with  the  Hoe  "  was  the  inspiration  for  this  poem. 


236  NEW  VOICES 

Down  all  the  caverns  of  Hell  to  their  last  gulf 
There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this — 
More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed — 
More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul — 
More  packt  with  danger  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 
Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 
Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 
Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 
Plundered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 
Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 
A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing,  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortalky; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes? 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
How  will  the  future  reckon  with  this  man? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is — 
When  this  dumb  terror  shall  appeal  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 

Edwin  Markham 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES     237 


"SCUM  O'  THE  EARTH" 

I 

At  the  gate  of  the  West  I  stand, 
On  the  isle  where  the  nations  throng. 
We  call  them  "scum  o'  the  earth"; 

Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong, 

Young  fellow  from  Socrates'  land? — 

You,  like  a  Hermes  so  lissome  and  strong 

Fresh  from  the  master  Praxiteles'  hand? 

So  you're  of  Spartan  birth? 

Descended,  perhaps,  from  one  of  the  band — 

Deathless  in  story  and  song — 

Who  combed  their  long  hair  at  Thermopylae's  pass?  .  .  . 

Ah,  I  forget  the  straits,  alas! 

More  tragic  than  theirs,  more  compassion-worth, 

That  have  doomed  you  to  march  in  our  "immigrant  class" 

Where  you're  nothing  but  "scum  o'  the  earth." 

n 

You  Pole  with  the  child  on  your  knee, 

What  dower  bring  you  to  the  land  of  the  free? 

Hark!  does  she  croon 

That  sad  little  tune 

That  Chopin  once  found  on  his  Polish  lea 

And  mounted  in  gold  for  you  and  for  me? 

Now  a  ragged  young  fiddler  answers 

In  wild  Czech  melody 

That  Dvorak  took  whole  from  the  dancers. 

And  the  heavy  faces  bloom 

In  the  wonderful  Slavic  way; 

The  little,  dull  eyes,  the  brows  a-gloom, 

Suddenly  dawn  like  the  day. 

While,  watching  these  folk  and  their  mystery, 

I  forget  that  they're  nothing  worth; 

That  Bohemians,  Slovaks,  Croatians, 

And  men  of  all  Slavic  nations 

Are  "polacks" — and  "scum  o'  the  earth." 


238  NEW  VOICES 

m 

Genoese  boy  of  the  level  brow, 
Lad  of  the  lustrous,  dreamy  eyes 
Astare  at  Manhattan's  pinnacles  now 
In  the  first,  sweet  shock  of  a  hushed  surprise; 
Within  your  far-rapt  seer's  eyes 
I  catch  the  glow  of  a  wild  surmise 
That  played  on  the  Santa  Maria's  prow 
In  that  still  gray  dawn, 
Four  centuries  gone, 

When  a  world  from  the  wave  began  to  rise. 
Oh,  it's  hard  to  foretell  what  high  emprise 
Is  the  goal  that  gleams 
When  Italy's  dreams 
Spread  wing  and  sweep  into  the  skies. 
Caesar  dreamed  him  a  world  ruled  well; 
Dante  dreamed  Heaven  out  of  Hell; 
Angelo  brought  us  there  to  dwell; 
And  you,  are  you  of  a  different  birth? — 
You're  only  a  "dago," — and  "scum  o'  the  earth"! 


IV 

Stay,  are  we  doing  you  wrong 

Calling  you  "scum  o'  the  earth," 

Man  of  the  sorrow-bowed  head, 

Of  the  features  tender  yet  strong, — 

Man  of  the  eyes  full  of  wisdom  and  mystery 

Mingled  with  patience  and  dread? 

Have  not  I  known  you  in  history, 

Sorrow-bowed  head? 

Were  you  the  poet-king,  worth 

Treasures  of  Ophir  unpriced? 

Were  you  the  prophet,  perchance,  whose  art 

Foretold  how  the  rabble  would  mock 

That  shepherd  of  spirits,  erelong, 

Who  should  carry  the  lambs  on  his  heart 

And  tenderly  feed  his  flock? 

Man — lift  that  sorrow-bowed  head. 

Lo!  'tis  the  face  of  the  Christ! 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES  239 

The  vision  dies  at  its  birth. 
You're  merely  a  butt  for  our  mirth. 
You're  a  "sheeny" — and  therefore  despised 
And  rejected  as  "scum  o'  the  earth." 


Countrymen,  bend  and  invoke 

Mercy  for  us  blasphemers, 

For  that  we  spat  on  these  marvelous  folk, 

Nations  of  darers  and  dreamers, 

Scions  of  singers  and  seers, 

Our  peers,  and  more  than  our  peers. 

"Rabble  and  refuse,"  we  name  them 

And  "scum  o'  the  earth"  to  shame  them. 

Mercy  for  us  of  the  few,  young  years, 

Of  the  culture  so  callow  and  crude, 

Of  the  hands  so  grasping  and  rude, 

The  lips  so  ready  for  sneers 

At  the  sons  of  our  ancient  more-than-peers. 

Mercy  for  us  who  dare  despise 

Men  in  whose  loins  our  Homer  lies; 

Mothers  of  men  who  shall  bring  to  us 

The  glory  of  Titian,  the  grandeur  of  Huss; 

Children  in  whose  frail  arms  shall  rest 

Prophets  and  singers  and  saints  of  the  West. 

Newcomers  all  from  the  eastern  seas, 
Help  us  incarnate  dreams  like  these. 
Forget,  and  forgive,  that  we  did  you  wrong. 
Help  us  to  father  a  nation,  strong 
In  the  comradeship  of  an  equal  birth, 
In  the  wealth  of  the  richest  bloods  of  earth. 

Robert  Haven  Schaujfler 

FROM  "THE  NEW  WORLD" 

Celia  was  laughing.    Hopefully  I  said : 
"How  shall  this  beauty  that  we  share, 
This  love,  remain  aware 
Beyond  our  happy  breathing  of  the  air? 


240  NEW  VOICES 

How  shall  it  be  fulfilled  and  perfected?  .  .  . 

If  you  were  dead, 

How  then  should  I  be  comforted?" 

But  Celia  knew  instead: 
"He  who  finds  beauty  here,  shall  find  it  there." 

A  halo  gathered  round  her  hair. 
I  looked  and  saw  her  wisdom  bare 
The  living  bosom  of  the  countless  dead. 
.  .  .  And  there 
I  laid  my  head. 

Again  when  Celia  laughed,  I  doubted  her  and  said: 
"Life  must  be  led 
In  many  ways  more  difficult  to  see 
Than  this  immediate  way 
For  you  and  me. 

We  stand  together  on  our  lake's  edge,  and  the  mystery 
Of  love  has  made  us  one,  as  day  is  made  of  night  and  night  of 

day. 

Aware  of  one  identity 
Within  each  other,  we  can  say: 
'I  shall  be  everything  you  are.'  .  .  . 
We  are  uplifted  till  we  touch  a  star. 
We  know  that  overhead 

Is  nothing  more  austere,  more  starry,  or  more  deep  to  understand 
Than  is  our  union,  human  hand  in  hand. 
.  .  .  But  over  our  lake  come  strangers — a  crowded  launch,  a  lonely 

sailing  boy. 

A  mile  away  a  train  bends  by.    In  every  car 
Strangers  are  travelling,  each  with  particular 
And  unkind  preference  like  ours,  with  privacy 
Of  understanding,  with  especial  joy 
Like  ours.    Celia,  Celia,  why  should  there  be 
Distrust  between  ourselves  and  them,  disunity? 
.  .  .  How  careful  we  have  been 
To  trim  this  little  circle  that  we  tread, 
To  set  a  bar 

To  strangers  and  forbid  them ! — Are  they  not  as  we, 
Our  very  likeness  and  our  nearest  kin? 
How  can  we  shut  them  out  and  let  stars  in?" 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  NEW  THEMES     241 

She  looked  along  the  lake.    And  when  I  heard  her  speak, 
The  sun  fell  on  the  boy's  white  sail  and  her  white  cheek. 
"I  touch  them  all  through  you,"  she  said.    "I  cannot  know  them  now 
Deeply  and  truly  as  my  very  own,  except  through  you, 
Except  through  one  or  two 
Interpreters. 
But  not  a  moment  stirs 

Here  between  us,  binding  and  interweaving  us, 
That  does  not  bind  these  others  to  our  care." 

The  sunlight  fell  in  glory  on  her  hair.  .  .  . 
And  then  said  Celia,  radiant,  when  I  held  her  near: 
"They  who  find  beauty  there,  shall  find  it  here." 

And  on  her  brow, 
When  I  heard  Celia  speak, 
Cities  were  populous 

With  peace  and  oceans  echoed  glories  in  her  ear 
And  from  her  risen  thought 
Her  lips  had  brought, 
As  from  some  peak 

Down  through  the  clouds,  a  mountain-air 
To  guide  the  lonely  and  uplift  the  weak. 

"Record  it  all,"  she  told  me,  "more  than  merely  this, 
More  than  the  shine  of  sunset  on  our  heads,  more  than  a  kiss, 
More  than  our  rapt  agreement  and  delight 
Watching  the  mountain  mingle  with  the  night.  .  .  . 
Tell  that  the  love  of  two  incurs 
The  love  of  multitudes,  makes  way 
And  welcome  for  them,  as  a  solitary  star 
Brings  on  the  great  array. 
Go  make  a  lovers'  calendar," 
She  said,  "for  every  day." 

And  when  the  sun  had  put  away 
His  dazzle,  over  the  shadowy  firs 
The  solitary  star  came  out.  ...    So  on  some  night 
To  eyes  of  youth  shall  come  my  light 
And  hers. 

Witter  Bynner 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR 

Courage  is  the  fundamental  biological  virtue,  the  necessary 
virtue  without  which  the  human  race  could  never  have  survived 
on  this  planet.  Long  before  people  discussed  the  virtues  and 
classified  their  names  as  abstract  nouns,  courage  was  a  concrete 
and  definite  thing.  If  he  would  eat,  the  man  of  the  stone  age 
must  have  courage  in  hunting  and  fishing  and  fighting.  If 
she  would  protect  her  young,  the  woman  of  the  stone  age  must 
have  courage  to  stand  before  thern  in  the  door  of  her  cave. 
Therefore  courage  is  probably  plante<J\leeper  in  us  than  any  of 
the  virtues  acquired  later  in  the  history  of  the  race  and  is  prob- 
ably the  most  common  of  all  virtues.  Certainly,  whenever  it  is 
demanded  of  them,  men  and  women  with  no  very  unusual  quali- 
ties of  any  other  kind  manifest  courage  in  a  remarkable  degree. 
And  in  almost  all  normal  human  beings,  as  the  great  war  has 
proved,  is  a  capacity  for  courage,  even  for  heroism.  In  spite  of 
the  fact  that  many  of  us  never  rise  very  high  above  our  sins  and 
follies,  it  can  be  said  justly  that  few  of  us  are  cowards. 

Much  of  the  power  of  the  social  and  racial  passion  called 
patriotism  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  it  calls  upon  the  com- 
mon woman  and  man  to  exercise  this  ancient  virtue.  It  affords 
an  opportunity  for  transfiguration.  No  matter  what  his  faults 
may  have  been,  when  the  tune  comes  a  man  will  be  a  man — and, 
in  the  same  sense,  a  woman  will  be  a  woman.  For  once  they  will 
be  godlike,  giving  everything,  facing  and  enduring  all  things  for 
the  sake  of  the  dear  soil  of  the  mother  land,  for  the  streets  of 
the  home  town,  and  for  the  civilization  in  which  they  have  been 
bred,  which,  in  spite  of  all  the  criticisms  leveled  against  it  in 
times  of  peace,  probably  suits  them  better  than  any  other  which 
might  be  imposed  upon  them. 

For  it  is  the  glory  of  poor  errant  human  nature  to  love  the 

242 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  243 

exercise  of  courage,  or  of  any  virtue.  Nothing  gives  a  man  more 
happiness  than  the  expression  of  that  which  is  best  in  himself. 
Nothing,  to  speak  colloquially,  is  more  fun  than  being  good.  Let 
a  man  once  get  a  good  strong  taste  of  any  particular  virtue  and 
know  what  it  is  like  to  practise  it  and  the  chances  are  that  he 
will  enjoy  it  so  much  that  Satan  will  have  little  power  over  him 
with  the  opposite  vice.  That  man  will  have  to  be  tempted  in 
another  way.  When  a  rich  man  gives  away  large  parts  of  his 
fortune  in  philanthropies  of  one  kind  or  another,  he  is  enjoying 
the  virtue  of  generosity.  When  a  man  who  could  earn  an  ex- 
cellent living  in  business  continues  to  preach  and  teach  at  a  low 
wage,  he  is  enjoying  his  self-abnegation.  The  virtue  which  we 
have  tried,  the  virtue  in  which  we  believe,  that  alone  will  con- 
tent us.  And  it  is  only  the  person  who  has  never  made  a  fair 
trial  of  "being  good"  in  one  way  or  another,  who  does  not  like 
it.  To  be  sure  it  is  not  always  easy  to  be  good  in  a  world  where 
goodness  does  not  altogether  control  the  popular  imagination 
and  where  it  is  not  always  understood.  But  that  fact  makes  it 
the  more  interesting. 

Now  courage  is  the  virtue  that  most  men  and  women  know 
best.  And  patriotism  is  the  greatest  of  social  and  racial  passions. 
Therefore  when  patriotism  calls  men  and  women  to  the  exercise 
of  the  ancient  biological  virtue,  not  in  the  dull,  slow  ways  of 
peace,  but  in  the  quick  and  dramatic  ways  of  war  that  stir  the 
imagination  and  arouse  the  emotions,  then  the  people  respond. 
Out  of  that  response  came  the  first  war  songs.  Out  of  it  will  come  ; 
the  last. 

Nearly  all  living  poets  have  written  something  about  the  great 
war.  If  we  could  have  all  of  the  thousands  of  poems  written  by 
recognized  poets,  with  their  dates,  we  should  have  a  passionate 
record  of  all  that  mankind  has  felt  about  the  war  and  of  the 
several  currents  of  changing  emotion  that  have  swept  across  the 
world  since  1914.  But  the  whole  story  of  the  poetry  of  the  war 
can  never  be  told  in  any  one  book.  The  best  that  can  be  done 
here  is  to  tell  what  a  few  poets  of  our  language  have  felt  and 


244  NEW  VOICES 

how  they  have  spoken,  for  themselves,  for  their  people,  for  their 
times. 

In  1914  many  sober-minded  persons  here  and  abroad  thought 
that  there  would  never  be  another  great  war.  In  the  United 
States,  especially,  we  had  begun  to  feel  very  secure  in  the  thought 
of  the  world's  peace.  We  are  a  nation  made  of  people  from  many 
nations,  "of  many  one."  We  were  getting  ready  for  world 
federation  and  internationalism.  And  then  the  greatest  of  all 
international  wars  began.  For  a  while  we  stood  aloof.  We 
were  annoyed  with  Europe.  We  were  disgusted  with  Germany's 
behavior  to  Belgium,  to  be  sure.  We  wanted  to  help  the  poor 
Belgians.  We  were  willing  to  give  generously.  But  for  our- 
selves we  did  not  believe  in  bloodshed  unless  it  was  necessary 
in  self-defense.  We  thought  things  could  and  should  be  settled 
by  arbitration.  We  did  not  want  to  take  part  in  Europe's 
ugly  family  quarrel.  In  spite  of  our  theoretical  internationalism 
we  did  not  feel  that  we  were  a  part  of  the  same  world  which  the 
Europeans  were  disturbing.  As  in  the  days  of  Washington,  we 
thought  we  were  the  "New  World"  and  they  were  the  "Old 
World."  We  did  not  understand  that  from  now  on  there  can 
be  but  one  great  family  in  the  world,  the  human  family,  and  that 
any  vital  quarrel  will  involve  all  members  of  that  family  sooner 
or  later. 

Therefore  the  first  American  poems  about  the  great  war  were 
poems  of  peace.  They  were  not  very  good.  Perhaps,  in  so  far  as 
they  touched  the  war,  the  American  poems  of  that  period  may  be 
called  negligible.  Most  of  them  pointed  out  the  wickedness  of 
Europe  or  the  wickedness  of  war.  Most  of  them  took  issue  in 
the  minds  of  their  makers  from  moral  ideas,  not  from  emotional 
realizations.  Some  of  them  expressed  a  generous  sympathy 
with  the  sufferings  of  Europe.  As  poetry  none  of  them  were 
great. 

But  in  England,  at  that  same  time,  war  was  necessary.  It 
was  not  a  subject  for  academic  discussion.  It  was  a  reality. 
And  the  first  English  poems  were  songs  inciting  men  to  valor, 
lyrics  which  called  to  the  minds  of  Englishmen  the  heroism  of 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  245 

England's  valiant  dead.    They  made  the  old  racial  appeal  to 
the  common  virtue  of  courage. 

In  England  these  first  poems  about  the  war  seem  to  have  been 
written  by  mature  and  famous  poets,  perhaps  because  the  young 
poets  were  among  those  first  called  to  the  front.  In  a  small 
volume  called  u Songs  And  Sonnets  For  England  In  War  Time" 
(Lane)  and  published  in  1914,  we  find  no  work  by  the  young 
fighting  singers  who  have  since  brought  beauty  out  of  the  Hell 
in  which  they  lived.  In  this  little  book  were  lyrics  by  Thomas 
Hardy,  G.  K.  Chesterton,  Henry  Newbolt  and  others  as  well 
known.  But  their  contributions  to  this  volume  can  hardly  be 
set  side  by  side  with  their  best  work  in  poetry.  Very  little  in 
the  book  is  more  than  manly  journalism.  The  best  poems  in  it 
are  Laurence  Binyon's  generous  lyric,  "To  Women,"  and  Rud- 
yard  Kipling's  "For  All  We  Have  And  Are,"  which  is  strong  in 
the  racial  spirit. 

"For  all  we  have  and  are, 
For  all  our  children's  fate, 
Stand  up  and  meet  the  war. 
The  Hun  is  at  the  gate! 

****** 

"  There  is  but  one  task  for  all — 
For  each  one  life  to  give. 
Who  stands  if  freedom  fall? 
Who  dies  if  England  live?" 

For  the  rest,  none  of  the  poets  represented  had,  at  that  time, 
written  a  great  poem  about  the  war.  It  was  not  for  any  lack  of 
genius.  It  was  simply  that  it  was  too  soon.  The  spiritual  reali- 
ties of  the  war  were  too  stupendous  to  be  quickly  revealed.  The 
issues  of  it  could  not  be  realized  quickly.  Never  before  in  our 
times  had  men  and  women  been  called  upon  to  witness  such  a 
pageant  of  the  human  spirit.  Old  wars  gave  no  clue  to  the  magni- 
tude of  this  one.  Poets  needed  to  wait  and  learn,  before  they 
could  speak. 

The  English  learned  sooner  than  we,  for  they  stepped  first 


246  NEW  VOICES 

out  of  safety  and  peace  into  the  valor  and  agony  of  the  mael- 
strom. Then,  when  the  first  convulsion  of  pain  shook  the  heart 
of  a  great  people,  their  speech  was  heard,  as  English  speech 
has  always  been  heard,  in  the  voices  of  poets  worthy  of  England. 
John  Masefield  gave  the  world  "August,  1914,"  and  Rupert 
Brooke,  the  "Nineteen  Fourteen"  sonnets. 

"August,  1914"  is  quiet  and  profound.  It  begins  with  the 
line, 

"  How  still  this  quiet  cornfield  is  to-night! " 

In  every  sweet-flowing  line  a  depth  of  quietness  is  felt.  Yet  the 
poem  is  as  moving  as  the  beat  of  drums.  In  it  is  the  essence  of 
what  one  feels  about  one's  own  country  and  folk.  Mr.  Mase- 
field thought  and  wrote  of  the  Englishmen  of  all  ages  who  had 
heard  the  news  of  war,  who  went  home  to  think  about  it  quietly 
at  their  own  hearths, 

"With  such  dumb  loving  of  the  Berkshire  loam 
As  breaks  the  dumb  hearts  of  the  English  kind, 

"  Then  sadly  rose  an4  left  the  well-loved  Downs, 
And  so  by  ship  to  sea,  and  knew  no  more 
The  fields  of  home,  the  byres,  the  market  towns, 
Nor  the  dear  outline  of  the  English  shore, 

"  But  knew  the  misery  of  the  soaking  trench, 
The  freezing  in  the  rigging,  the  despair 
In  the  revolting  second  of  the  wrench 
When  the  blind  soul  is  flung  upon  the  air, 

"  And  died  (uncouthly,  most)  in  foreign  lands 

For  some  idea  but  dimly  understood 

Of  an  English  city  never  built  by  hands 

Which  love  of  England  prompted  and  made  good." 

Three  of  the  "Nineteen-Fourteen"  sonnets  of  Rupert  Brooke, 
"Peace,"  "The  Dead"  (one  of  two  with  that  title),  and  "The 
Soldier"  were  published  first  in  our  own  country.  These 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  247 

sonnets  and  the  others  in  the  same  group  are  noble  alike  in 
conception  and  execution.  They  are  thrilling  in  their  ex- 
altation. 

"Now,  God  be  thanked  who  has  matched  us  with  this  hour, 
And  caught  our  youth  and  wakened  us  from  sleeping!" 

That  was  Rupert  Brooke's  answer,  that  was  the  answer  of 
youth  called  to  be  a  sacrifice  for  the  sins  of  the  world.  The 
fine,  white  fire  of  this  mood  lights  every  line  of  these  sonnets. 
Surely  man  is  never  greater  than  when  he  can  give  thanks  for 
his  own  renunciations. 

Rupert  Brooke  showed  his  love  of  life  in  his  earlier  poems.  His 
occasional  ironies,  gritty  and  delightfully  humorous,  were  the 
ironies  of  youth  and  without  bitterness.  They  have  done  nothing 
to  destroy  our  belief  that  he  found  joy  in  the  things  of  the  world. 
This  makes  the  sonnets  seem  the  more  lovely  since  now,  for 
Rupert  Brooke,  as  for  "The  Dead  "  of  whom  he  wrote, 

"Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 
And  wandering  loveliness.    He  leaves  a  white 

Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 
A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night." 

Rupert  Brooke's  sonnets  are  purely  lyrical,  the  direct  ex- 
pression of  great  personal  emotion.  His  friend,  Wilfrid  Wilson 
Gibson,  who  gave  us  the  first  good  realistic  poetry  of  the  war, 
has  dramatized  the  emotions  of  the  common  soldier,  any 
soldier  at  the  front.  He  tells  us  things  that  we  all  know  very 
well  might  be  in  the  heart  of  any  decent,  normal  man  not  a 
soldier  by  trade  and  inclination,  but  for  love  of  honor  and  home. 
The  wonder  about  dying,  the  horror  of  killing,  the  great  helpless 
sympathy  for  other  suffering  men,  all  the  poignant  pathos  of 
warfare  are  to  be  found  in  these  plain,  homely  little  poems.  They 
are  like  strong,  true  sketches  in  charcoal,  done  in  a  few  lines, 
but  unforgettable.  And  in  the  making  of  them  Mr.  Gibson 
is  so  much  an  artist  that  he  has  used  always  the  exact,  the  vivid 
word.  In  "The  Bayonet"  he  says: 


248  NEW  VOICES 

"This  bloody  steel 
Has  killed  a  man, 
I  heard  him  squeal 
As  on  I  ran." 

Only  strong  personal  realization  could  have  written  that  word 
"  squeal."  It  brings  home  to  us  the  horror  of  killing  as  no  other 
word  could. 

Much  of  the  beauty  of  these  poems  is  in  the  absolute  faith- 
fulness to  reality  which  seems  to  be  Mr.  Gibson's  ideal.  We 
read  about  the  lad  who  lies  in  the  trench  thinking  of  home  as  he 
left  it,  and  saying  to  himself, 

"  I  wonder  if  the  old  cow  died  or  not." 

We  read  about  another  lad  "  back  from  the  trenches  more  dead 
than  alive,"  who  is  suffering  mental  torment  because  three  of  his 
chums  dropped  dead  beside  him  in  the  trench  and  whispered 
their  dying  messages  to  him,  and  yet  he  "can  not  quite  re- 
member." We  read  about  the  feverish  man  in  the  ambulance 
who  keeps  other  chaps  awake  all  night  muttering  about  his 
garden 

"Two  rows  of  cabbages, 
Two  of  curly-greens, 
Two  rows  of  early  peas, 
Two  of  kidney  beans." 

Another  realist,  Siegfried  Sassoon,  writes  of  the  war  in  much 
the  same  spirit,  save  that  the  edge  of  his  irony  is  sharper  and  he 
is  more  bitter  about  the  war  and  the  destruction  it  has  wrought. 
Mr.  Sassoon  knows  war  by  actual  experience.  He  can  not  write 
of  it  as  the  older  poets  wrote  before  the  battle  was  on.  Nor  do 
any  of  the  young  poets  who  have  fought  write  as  men  wrote  of 
war  in  days  gone  by.  In  a  very  terrible  short  poem  called  "The 
Kiss,"  Mr.  Sassoon  expresses  something  which  seems  to  be  in  the 
hearts  of  all  of  these  young  poets  who  have  come  to  grips  with 
war  and  suffered  and  fought  most  bravely.  In  this  poem,  with 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  249 

sensitive  spirit,  he  prays  for  an  insensate  fury  which  will  enable 
him  to  do  his  hideous  duty.  He  says, 

"To  these  I  turn,  in  these  I  trust; 
Brother  Lead  and  Sister  Steel." 

and  then  he  makes  his  prayer: 

"Sweet  Sister,  grant  your  soldier  this; 
That  in  good  fury  he  may  feel 
The  body  where  he  sets  his  heel 
Quail  from  your  downward  darting  kiss." 

Terrible  as  such  poems  are,  there  is  something  essentially  noble 
in  the  intellectual  honesty  that  will  cast  no  glamour  over  the 
thing  which  must  be  done,  not  because  it  is  beautiful,  but  be- 
cause, in  an  imperfect  world,  it  is  necessary.  This  same  un- 
compromising bitterness  is  to  be  found  in  many  another  strong 
lyric,  in  "Golgotha,"  "When  I'm  Among  A  Blaze  of  Lights," 
"A  Mystic  As  a  Soldier,"  "Blighters"  and  "At  Carnoy."  Mr. 
Sassoon  is  a  sincere  and  truth-loving  poet  of  whom  fine  things 
may  be  expected. 

His  two  friends,  Robert  Graves  and  Robert  Nichols,  are  less 
bitter  in  their  thought  of  the  war.  Robert  Graves,  if  one  can 
judge  him  by  his  book,  "Fairies  And  Fusiliers,"  is  not  bitter  at 
all,  but  a  gay  young  singer,  capable  of  impish  mischief  and  in- 
souciant fancy.  His  poems  of  the  war  are  well  made,  true  and 
beautiful  with  a  boy's  spirit  of  gallantry.  In  particular  "The 
Assault  Heroic"  is  a  fine  poem  which  tells  how  a  young  officer, 
worn  out  after  five  sleepless  days  and  nights  in  the  trenches, 
in  that  peculiar  trance  between  sleep  and  wakefulness  which 
sometimes  comes  to  the  very  weary,  must  fight  his  own  spiritual 
enemies  within  himself.  When  he  has  won  his  victory, 

"with  my  spear  of  Faith, 
Stout  as  an  oaken  rafter, 
With  my  round  shield  of  laughter" 


250  NEW  VOICES 

he  hears  once  more  the  very  real  voices  of  his  men  in  the  trench, 
saying, 

"Stand  to!   Stand  to! 
Wake  up,  sir!   Here's  a  new 
Attack!   Stand  to!   Stand  to!" 

Robert  Nichols,  the  third  member  of  this  trio  of  young  Eng- 
lish poets,  is  rather  better  known  in  the  United  States  than 
either  of  the  others,  because  he  has  visited  us.  His  poems  are 
less  bitter  in  their  descriptions  of  war  than  Siegfried  Sassoon's. 
He  is  content  to  show  that  it  is  tragic.  Nor  is  he  so  young  and 
whimsical  in  manner  as  Robert  Graves.  His  poems  are  some- 
what more  lyrical  than  the  poems  of  either  of  the  others.  But 
in  his  book,  "Ardours  And  Endurances"  we  find  a  number  of 
poems  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  truth  and  vitality  of  their 
picturing.  One  of  the  finest  of  these  picture-poems  is  "Out  of 
Trenches:  The  Barn,  Twilight."  Just  to  read  it  is  to  join  a 
group  of  Tommies  and  listen  to  their  songs  and  their  talk.  It  is 
admirably  done.  But  it  is  not  verse  to  be  quoted.  It  should 
be  read  as  a  whole. 

Another  fine,  true  picture  from  the  front  is  Ford  Madox 
Hueffer's  "The  Old  Houses  of  Flanders,"  a  poem  made  with 
delicate  skill  and  fine  imagination,  as  are  also  his  more  lyrical 
poems,  "The  Iron  Music"  and  "A  Solis  Ortus  Cardine."  It 
is  interesting  to  note  that  no  American  has  written  war  poetry 
of  this  pictorial  kind. 

The  first  fine  American  poem  of  the  war  written  by  an  Ameri- 
can who  was  a  sharer  in  the  conflict  is  Alan  Seeger's  "I  Have 
A  Rendezvous  With  Death,"  now  famous  wherever  poetry  is 
read  in  our  language.  Alan  Seeger,  as  everybody  knows,  went 
into  the  war  with  impetuous  and  generous  gallantry,  before  this 
nation  went  into  it,  and  for  love  of  France,  the  foster-mother  of 
his  spirit.  He  died  at  Belloy-en-Santerre  without  knowing  that 
we  also,  later,  would  follow  where  he  led,  to  France  and  to 
battle. 

"I  Have  A  Rendezvous  With  Death"  is  a  gravely  beautiful 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  251 

lyric,  personal,  intimate,  a  young  man's  word  about  himself 
and  his  last  adventure.  All  the  austerity  of  youth  consecrated 
to  dissolution  is  in  these  reiterated  lines  about  the  rendezvous. 
All  the  lavish  generosity  of  youth,  going  out  to  death  while  the 
love  of  life  is  still  hot  in  the  heart,  is  in  the  last  lines  of  this 
stern  singing, 

"But  IVe  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  North  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous." 

After  our  declaration  of  war  a  number  of  fine  poems  were 
written.  First  came  the  call  to  courage.  And  just  as  in  Eng- 
land, in  1914,  so  in  our  country,  in  1917,  poems  were  written 
that  were  simply  attempts  to  summon  men  to  the  exercise  of 
the  ancient  and  indisputable  virtue  of  the  race.  These  poems 
were  just  what  many  of  the  first  English  poems  of  the  war 
were,  manly  journalism.  But  one  of  them  was  much  more. 
Edgar  Lee  Masters'  "Draw  The  Sword,  O  Republic,"  is  a  fine, 
stern  call  to  battle,  and  will  continue  to  be  a  fine,  stern  summons 
when  many  other  poems  of  to-day  are  forgotten.  It  is  one  of  the 
finest  things  he  ever  wrote.  It  is  not  lyrical,  for  the  singer's 
gift  is  not  in  Mr.  Masters '  genius.  But  it  is  powerful,  resonant 
speech,  and,  since  the  modern  conception  of  poetry  has  been 
enlarged  to  include  such  speech,  it  is  indubitably  poetry.  More- 
over it  is  essentially  American,  for,  says  Mr.  Masters: 

"By  the  power  that  drives  the  soul  to  Freedom, 
And  by  the  power  that  makes  us  love  our  fellows, 
And  by  the  power  that  comforts  us  in  death, — 
Dying  for  great  races  to  come — 
Draw  the  sword,  O  Republic! 
Draw  the  sword!" 

It  is  in  America  that  men  live  and  die  not  for  one  race,  but 
for  "great  races  to  come." 


252  NEW  VOICES 

John  Farrar,  one  of  our  young  poets  who  have  grown  up  in 
the  great  war  celebrates  the  American  soldier's  home-coming 
and  his  farewell  to  France  in  "  Brest  Left  Behind."  The  soldiers 
march  to  the  ship  where  is  "No  Camouflage  this  time." 

"The  sun  strikes  gold  the  dirty  street, 
The  band  blares,  the  drums  insist 
And  brown  legs  twinkle,  and  muscles  twist, 
Pound !    Pound !    The  rhythmic  feet." 

Then  later, 

"Faces  are  set  and  grim, 

Thinking  of  months  this  hope  was  pain, 

And  eyes  are  full  of  dreams, 

And  gay  little  tunes  come  springing  to  the  lips, 

Home!    Home!    Again,  again!" 

But  perhaps  Americans  will  treasure  Joyce  Kilmer's  "Rouge 
Bouquet"  as  long,  and  with  as  much  affection  as  they  can  have 
for  any  American  poem  of  the  great  war.  For  Mr.  Kilmer  en- 
listed almost  as  soon  as  we  went  into  the  war  and  died  for  his 
country,  in  France,  near  the  Ourcq,  July  30,  1918. 

"Rouge  Bouquet"  commemorates  the  death  of  our  boys  in 
khaki  buried  under  earth  ten  meters  thick  when  a  great  shell 
exploded  near  a  dugout  in  the  wood  called  "Rouge  Bouquet." 
Like  most  of  Mr.  Kilmer's  more  serious  poems,  "Rouge 
Bouquet"  is  written  in  the  spirit  of  the  Catholic  faith,  and 
pictures  the  welcome  that  the  saints  will  offer  the  brave  lads 
when  they  go  in  at  the  gate  of  Heaven: 

"St.  Michael's  sword  darts  through  the  air 
And  touches  the  aureole  on  his  hair 
As  he  sees  them  stand  saluting  there, 

His  stalwart  sons; 
And  Patrick,  Brigid,  Columkill 
Rejoice  that  in  veins  of  warriors  still 

The  Gael's  blood  runs." 

Then  the  poem  closes  with  the  farewell  of  the  friends  on  earth 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  253 

and  the  bugles  playing  "Taps."    To  the  spirits  of  these  fellow 
soldiers  Joyce  Kilmer  said, 

"Your  souls  shall  be  where  heroes  are 

And  your  memory  shine  like  the  morning-star. 

Brave  and  dear, 

Shield  us  here. 

Farewell!" 

That  is  the  farewell  that  the  world  now  echoes  for  him. 

I— THE  DEAD* 

Blow  out,  you  bugles,  over  the  rich  Dead! 

There's  none  of  these  so  lonely  and  poor  of  old, 

But,  dying,  has  made  us  rarer  gifts  than  gold. 
These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the  red 
Sweet  wine  of  youth;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 

Of  work  and  joy,  and  that  unhoped  serene 

That  men  call  age;  and  those  who  would  have  been 
Their  sons,  they  gave,  their  immortality. 
Blow,  bugles,  blow!    They  brought  us,  for  our  dearth, 

Holiness,  lacked  so  long,  and  Love,  and  Pain. 
Honor  has  come  back,  as  a  king,  to  earth, 

And  paid  his  subjects  with  a  royal  wage; 
And  Nobleness  walks  in  our  ways  again; 

And  we  have  come  into  our  heritage. 

II— THE  DEAD 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares, 

Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 
The  years  had  given  them  kindness.    Dawn  was  theirs, 

And  sunset,  and  the  colors  of  the  earth. 
These  had  seen  movement,  and  heard  music;  known 

Slumber  and  waking;  loved;  gone  proudly  friended; 
Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder;  sat  alone; 

Touched  flowers  and  furs  and  cheeks.    All  this  is  ended. 

*  From  The  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke.    Copyright,  1915,  by  John  Lane  Company. 


254  NEW  VOICES 

There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 
And  lit  by  the  rich  skies,  all  day.    And  after, 

Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 
And  wandering  loveliness.    He  leaves  a  white 

Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 
A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night. 

Rupert  Brooke 

DAWN 

The  grim  dawn  lightens  thin  bleak  clouds; 
In  the  hill  clefts  beyond  the  flooded  meadows 
Lies  death-pale,  death-still  mist. 

We  trudge  along  wearily, 
Heavy  with  lack  of  sleep, 
Spiritless,  yet  with  pretence  of  gaiety. 

The  sun  brings  crimson  to  the  colourless  sky; 
Light  gleams  from  brass  and  steel — 
We  trudge  on  wearily — 

O  God,  end  this  bleak  anguish 
Soon,  soon,  with  vivid  crimson  death, 
End  it  in  mist-pale  sleep! 

Richard  Aldington 

THE  MESSAGES 

"I  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .    There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench — and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  ..." 

Back  from  the  trenches,  more  dead  than  alive, 
Stone-deaf  and  dazed,  and  with  a  broken  knee, 
He  hobbled  slowly,  muttering  vacantly: 

"I  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .    There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench,  and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me  ... 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  255 

"Their  friends  are  waiting,  wondering  how  they  thrive — 

Waiting  a  word  in  silence  patiently.  .  .  . 

But  what  they  said,  or  who  their  friends  may  be 

"I  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .  There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench, — and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  ..." 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


THE  FATHER 

That  was  his  sort. 
It  didn't  matter 
What  we  were  at 
But  he  must  chatter 
Of  this  and  that 
His  little  son 
Had  said  and  done: 
Till,  as  he  told 
The  fiftieth  time 
Without  a  change 
How  three-year-old 
Prattled  a  rhyme, 
They  got  the  range 
And  cut  him  short. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


BREAKFAST 

We  ate  our  breakfast  lying  on  our  backs, 

Because  the  shells  were  screeching  overhead. 

I  bet  a  rasher  to  a  loaf  of  bread 

That  Hull  United  would  beat  Halifax 

When  Jimmy  Stainthorpe  played  full-back  instead 

Of  Billy  Bradford.    Ginger  raised  his  head 

And  cursed,  and  took  the  bet;  and  dropt  back  dead. 

We  ate  our  breakfast  lying  on  our  backs, 

Because  the  shells  were  screeching  overhead. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 


256  NEW  VOICES 


THE  KISS 

To  these  I  turn,  in  these  I  trust; 
Brother  Lead  and  Sister  Steel. 
To  his  blind  power  I  make  appeal; 
I  guard  her  beauty  clean  from  rust. 

He  spins  and  burns  and  loves  the  air, 
And  splits  a  skull  to  win  my  praise; 
But  up  the  nobly  marching  days 
She  glitters  naked,  cold  and  fair. 

Sweet  Sister,  grant  your  soldier  this; 
That  in  good  fury  he  may  feel 
The  body  where  he  sets  his  heel 
Quail  from  your  downward  darting  kiss. 

Siegfried  Sassoon 

ABSOLUTION* 

The  anguish  of  the  earth  absolves  our  eyes 
Till  beauty  shines  in  all  that  we  can  see. 
War  is  our  scourge;  yet  war  has  made  us  wise, 
And,  fighting  for  our  freedom,  we  are  free. 

Horror  of  wounds  and  anger  at  the  foe, 

And  loss  of  things  desired;  all  these  must  pass. 

We  are  the  happy  legion,  for  we  know 

Time's  but  a  golden  wind  that  shakes  the  grass. 

There  was  an  hour  when  we  were  loth  to  part 
From  life  we  longed  to  share  no  less  than  others. 
Now,  having  claimed  this  heritage  of  heart, 
What  need  we  more,  my  comrades  and  my  brothers? 

Siegfried  Sassoon 

*  From  The  Old  Huntsman  and  Other  Poems  by  Siegfried  Sassoon,  London.    Heinemann. 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  257 


THE  ASSAULT  HEROIC* 

Down  in  the  mud  I  lay, 
Tired  out  by  my  long  day 
Of  five  damned  days  and  nights, 
Five  sleepless  days  and  nights,  .  .  . 
Dream-snatched,  and  set  me  where 
The  dungeon  of  Despair 
Looms  over  Desolate  Sea, 
Frowning  and  threatening  me 
With  aspect  high  and  steep — 
A  most  malignant  keep. 
My  foes  that  lay  within 
Shouted  and  made  a  din, 
Hooted  and  grinned  and  cried: 
"To-day  we've  killed  your  pride; 
To-day  your  ardour  ends. 
We've  murdered  all  your  friends; 
We've  undermined  by  stealth 
Your  happiness  and  your  health. 
We've  taken  away  your  hope; 
Now  you  may  droop  and  mope 
To  misery  and  to  Death." 
But  with  my  spear  of  Faith, 
Stout  as  an  oaken  rafter, 
With  my  round  shield  of  laughter, 
With  my  sharp  tongue-like  sword 
That  speaks  a  bitter  word, 
I  stood  beneath  the  wall 
And  there  defied  them  all. 
The  stones  they  cast  I  caught 
And  alchemized  with  thought 
Into  such  lumps  of  gold 
As  dreaming  misers  hold. 
The  boiling  oil  they  threw 
Fell  in  a  shower  of  dew, 
Refreshing  me;  the  spears 
Flew  harmless  by  my  ears, 

From  Fairies  and  Fusiliers  by  Robert  Graves,  London.    Heinemann. 


258  NEW  VOICES 


Stuck  quivering  in  the  sod; 
There,  like  the  prophet's  rod, 
Put  leaves  out,  took  firm  root, 
And  bore  me  instant  fruit. 
My  foes  were  all  astounded, 
Dumbstricken  and  confounded, 
Gaping  in  a  long  row; 
They  dared  not  thrust  nor  throw. 
Thus,  then,  I  climbed  a  steep 
Buttress  and  won  the  keep, 
And  laughed  and  proudly  blew 
My  horn,  "Stand  to!    Stand  to! 
Wake  up,  sir!    Here's  a  new 
Attack!    Stand  to!    Stand  to! )y 

Robert  Graves 


OUT  OF  TRENCHES:  THE  BARN,  TWILIGHT 

In  the  raftered  barn  we  lie, 

Sprawl,  scrawl  postcards,  laugh  and  speak — 

Just  mere  men  a  trifle  weary, 

Worn  hi  heart,  a  trifle  weak: 

Because  alway 

At  close  of  day 

Thought  steals  to  England  far  away.  .  .  . 

"Alf!"    "Oay." 

"GF  us  a  tune,  mate."    "Well,  wot  say?" 

"Swipe  'The  Policeman's  'Oliday'  ..." 

"  Tiddle—iddle— urn— turn, 

Turn— Tau" 

Sprawling  on  my  aching  back, 
Think  I  nought;  but  I  am  glad — 
Dear,  rare  lads  of  pick  and  pack! 
Aie  me  too!    I'm  sad  .  .  .  I'm  sad: 
Some  must  die 
(Maybe  I): 

O  pray  it  take  them  suddenly! 
."Bill!"    "Wot  ho!" 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  259 

"  Concertina :  let  it  go — 

1  If  you  were  the  only  girl ' "    "  Cheero ! 

"If  you  were  the  Only  Girl." 

Damn.    "  Abide  with  Me.  .  ."    Not  now!— 

Well  ...  if  you  must :  just  your  way. 

It  racks  me  till  the  tears  nigh  flow. 

The  tune  see-saws.    I  turn,  I  pray 

Behind  my  hand 

Shaken,  unmanned, 

In  groans  that  God  may  understand: 

Miracle! 

"Let,  let  them  all  survive  this  hell." 

Hear  "  Trumpeter,  what  are  you  sounding?  "  swell. 

(My  God!    I  guess  indeed  too  well: 

The  broken  heart,  eyes  front,  proud  knell!) 

Grant  but  mine  sound  with  their  farewell. 

"Its  the  Last  Post  Pm  sounding." 

Robert  Nichols 

NEARER 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer  .  .  . 
My  body,  tired  but  tense, 
Hovers  'twixt  vague  pleasure 
And  tremulous  confidence. 

Arms  to  have  and  to  use  them 
And  a  soul  to  be  made 
Worthy  if  not  worthy; 
If  afraid,  unafraid. 

To  endure  for  a  little, 
To  endure  and  have  done: 
Men  I  love  about  me, 
Over  me  the  sun! 

And  should  at  last  suddenly 
Fly  the  speeding  death, 
The  four  great  quarters  of  heaven 
Receive  this  little  breath. 

Robert  Nichols 


26o  NEW  VOICES 


THE  IRON  MUSIC* 

The  French  guns  roll  continuously 
And  our  guns,  heavy,  slow; 
Along  the  Ancre,  sinuously, 
The  transport  wagons  go, 
And  the  dust  is  on  the  thistles 
And  the  larks  sing  up  on  high  .  .  . 
But  I  see  the  Golden  Valley 
Down  by  Tintern  on  the  Wye. 

For  it's  just  nine  weeks  last  Sunday 

Since  we  took  the  Chepstow  train, 

And  I'm  wondering  if  one  day 

We  shall  do  the  like  again; 

For  the  four-point-two's  come  screaming 

Thro'  the  sausages  on  high; 

So  there's  little  use  in  dreaming 

How  we  walked  above  the  Wye. 

Dust  and  corpses  in  the  thistles 
Where  the  gas-shells  burst  like  snow, 
And  the  shrapnel  screams  and  whistles 
On  the  Becourt  road  below, 
And  the  High  Wood  bursts  and  bristles 
Where  the  mine-clouds  foul  the  sky  .  .  . 
But  Pm  with  you  up  at  Wyndcroft, 
Over  Tintern  on  the  Wye. 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

THE  OLD  HOUSES  OF  FLANDERS* 

The  old  houses  of  Flanders, 

They  watch  by  the  high  cathedrals; 

They  overtop  the  high  town-halls; 

They  have  eyes,  mournful,  tolerant  and  sardonic,  for  the  ways  of  men 

In  the  high,  white  tiled  gables. 

•From  On  Heaven  and  Poems  Written  on  Active  Service  by  Ford  Madox  Hueffer,  by 
permission  of  John  Lane  Company,  New  York,  and  John  Lane,  The  Bodley  Head,  London, 
publishers. 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  261 

The  rain  and  the  night  have  settled  down  on  Flanders; 
It  is  all  wet  darkness;  you  can  see  nothing. 

Then  those  old  eyes,  mournful,  tolerant  and  sardonic, 
Look  at  great,  sudden,  red  lights, 
Look  upon  the  shades  of  the  cathedrals; 
And  the  golden  rods  of  the  illuminated  rain, 
For  a  second  .  .  . 

And  those  old  eyes, 

Very  old  eyes  that  have  watched  the  ways  of  men  for  many  genera- 
tions, 

Close  for  ever. 

The  high,  white  shoulders  of  the  gables 
Slouch  together  for  a  consultation, 
Slant  drunkenly  over  in  the  lea  of  the  flaming  cathedrals. 

They  are  no  more,  the  old  houses  of  Flanders. 

For d  Madox  Huejfer 

"I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH"* 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

At  some  disputed  barricade, 

When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 

And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air — 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 

And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 

And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath — 

It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 

On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 

And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  't'were  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 

*  Copyright,  1916,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


262  NEW  VOICES 

Where  love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 

Alan  Seeger 

DRAW  THE  SWORD,  O  REPUBLIC 

By  the  blue  sky  of  a  clear  vision, 

And  by  the  white  light  of  a  great  illumination, 

And  by  the  blood-red  of  brotherhood, 

Draw  the  sword,  O  Republic! 

Draw  the  sword! 

For  the  light  which  is  England, 
And  the  resurrection  which  is  Russia, 
And  the  sorrow  which  is  France, 
And  for  peoples  everywhere 
Crying  in  bondage, 
And  in  poverty! 

You  have  been  a  leaven  in  the  earth,  O  Republic! 

And  a  watch-fire  on  the  hill-top  scattering  sparks; 

And  an  eagle  clanging  his  wings  on  a  cloud-wrapped  promontory: 

Now  the  leaven  must  be  stirred, 

And  the  brands  themselves  carried  and  touched 

To  the  jungles  and  the  black-forests. 

Now  the  eaglets  are  grown,  they  are  calling, 

They  are  crying  to  each  other  from  the  peaks — 

They  are  flapping  their  passionate  wings  in  the  sunlight, 

Eager  for  battle! 

As  a  strong  man  nurses  his  youth 

To  the  day  of  trial; 

But  as  a  strong  man  nurses  it  no  more 

On  the  day  of  trial, 

But  exults  and  cries  For  Victory,  O  Strength! 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  263 

And  for  the  glory  of  my  City,  O  treasured  youth! 
You  shall  neither  save  your  youth, 
Nor  hoard  your  strength 
Beyond  this  hour,  O  Republic! 

For  you  have  sworn 

By  the  passion  of  the  Gaul, 

And  the  strength  of  the  Teuton, 

And  the  will  of  the  Saxon, 

And  the  hunger  of  the  Poor, 

That  the  white  man  shall  lie  down  by  the  black  man, 

And  by  the  yellow  man, 

And  all  men  shall  be  one  spirit,  as  they  are  one  flesh, 

Through  Wisdom,  Liberty  and  Democracy. 

And  forasmuch  as  the  earth  cannot  hold 

Aught  beside  them, 

You  have  dedicated  the  earth,  O  Republic, 

To  Wisdom,  Liberty  and  Democracy! 

By  the  power  that  drives  the  soul  to  Freedom, 
And  by  the  Power  that  makes  us  love  our  fellows, 
And  by  the  Power  that  comforts  us  in  death, 
Dying  for  great  races  to  come — 
Draw  the  sword,  O  Republic! 
Draw  the  sword! 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 


DOWN  FIFTH  AVENUE 

The  crowd  makes  way  for  them. 

The  mob  of  motors — women  in  motors,  footmen  in  motors,  Man- 
hattan's transients  in  motors,  life's  transients  in  motors — has 
cleared  and  disappeared. 

And  their  mothers  and  their  children,  their  wives,  their  lovers  and 
friends,  are  lining  the  curb  and  knitting  and  whispering. 

The  flags  are  floating  and  beckoning  to  them,  the  breezes  are  beckon- 
ing and  whispering  their  secrets, 

That  the  city  has  hushed  to  hear,  while  trade  and  trivial  things  give 
place. 


264  NEW  VOICES 

And  through  the  crowd,  that  holds  its  breath  too  long,  a  restless  stir 

like  the  starting  of  troubled  breathing  says, 
"  They  are  coming."    And  the  distant  beat  of  feet  begins  to  blend 

with  the  beat  of  laboring  hearts; 
And  the  emptiness  that  missed  a  beat  in  the  heart  of  the  city 

becomes  the  street  of  a  prayer  and  a  passion. 
This  is  a  street  of  mothers  and  their  sons — for  an  hour  in  the  life  of 

Manhattan. 
And  to-day  makes  way  for  them. 

The  past  makes  way  for  them. 

This  morning's  discontent,  yesterday's  greed,  last  year's  uncertainty, 
are  muted  and  transmuted  to  a  surging  urge  to  victory. 

Spirits  that  stood  at  Bunker  Hill  and  Valley  Forge,  Ticonderoga, 
Yorktown,  Lundy's  Lane,  Fort  Sumter,  Appomatox,  are  resur- 
rected here; 

With  older  fathers  and  mothers  who  farmed,  and  pushed  frontiers  and 
homes  for  freedom  westward  steadily; 

With  freedom's  first  grandfathers  and  forerunners,  who  grew  to  hold 
hill  towers  and  forest  fastnesses,  and  range  the  sea  and  all  its 
shores  and  islands  for  the  right  to  live  for  liberty. 

And  their  blood  beats  in  these  boy  hearts,  and  their  hill-bred  and  sea- 
bred  strength  is  stirring  in  these  feet  that  beat  their  measured 
cadences  of  courage. 

For  now  the  tide  is  turning  eastward  at  last. 

And  the  sound  of  the  fall  of  their  feet  on  the  asphalt  is  the  sound  of 

the  march  of  the  waves  of  a  tide  that  is  flooding — 
Waves  that  marched  to  the  western  coast  past  forests  and  plains, 

mountains  and  deserts,  and  wrought  their  work  in  a  world  gone 

by. 
And  the  ripple  of  the  ranks  of  these  regiments  that  march  to  suffer  and 

to  die,  is  the  ripple  of  a  great  brown  river  in  flood  that  forges  sea- 
ward; 
And  the  ripple  of  the  light  on  eyes  and  lips  that  watch  and  work,  is  the 

swelling  of  a  greater  flood  that  forces  them  to  go. 
And  the  ripple  and  arrest  of  light  on  dull  gun-barrels  that  crest  their 

flow  are  runes  of  a  ritual  spelled  in  steel  and  a  service  enduring. 
And  each  beat  of  their  feet  and  each  beat  of  their  hearts  is  a  word  in  a 

gospel  of  steel  that  says  the  nations  through  ruins  grow  one  again; 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  265 

When  God's  drill-master  War  has  welded  nations  in  ranks  that  their 

children  may  serve  Him  together. 
For  to-morrow  makes  way  for  them. 

John  Curtis  Underwood 


THE  CORNUCOPIA  OF  RED  AND  GREEN  COMFITS 

"In  the  town  of  Bar-le-Duc  in  the  Province  of  the  Meuse  in  France 
the  Prefect  has  issued  instructions  to  the  Mayor,  the  school- 
masters and  the  schoolmistresses  to  prevent  the  children  under 
their  care  from  eating  candies  which  may  be  dropped  from  Ger- 
man aeroplanes,  as  candies  which  were  similarly  scattered  in 
other  parts  of  the  war  zone  have  been  found  to  contain  poison 
and  disease  germs." — Daily  News  Report. 

Currants  and  Honey! 

Currants  and  Honey! 

Bar-le-Duc  in  times  of  peace. 

Linden-tassel  honey, 

Cherry-blossom,  poppy-sweet  honey, 

And  round  red  currants  like  grape  clusters, 

Red  and  yellow  globes,  lustred  like  stretched  umbrella  silk, 

Money  chinking  in  town  pockets, 

Louis  d'or  in  exchange  for  dockets  of  lading: 

So  many  jars, 

So  many  bushes  shorn  of  their  stars, 

So  many  honey-combs  lifted  from  the  hive-bars. 

Straw-pale  honey  and  amber  berries, 

Red-stained  honey  and  currant  cherries. 

Sweetness  flowing  out  of  Bar-le-Duc  by  every  train, 

It  rains  prosperity  in  Bar-le-Duc  in  times  of  peace. 

Holy  Jesus!  when  will  there  be  mercy,  when  a  ceasing 

Of  War! 

The  currant  bushes  are  lopped  and  burned, 

The  bees  have  flown  and  never  returned, 

The  children  of  Bar-le-Duc  eat  no  more  honeye 

And  all  the  money  in  the  town  will  not  buy 

Enough  lumps  of  sugar  for  a  family. 

Father  has  two  between  sun  and  sun, 


266  NEW  VOICES 

So  has  mother,  and  little  Jeanne,  one, 

But  Gaston  and  Marie — they  have  none. 

Two  little  children  kneeling  between  the  grape-vines, 

Praying  to  the  starry  virgin, 

They  have  seen  her  in  church,  shining  out  of  a  high  window 

In  a  currant-red  gown  and  a  crown  as  smooth  as  honey. 

They  clasp  their  hands  and  pray, 

And  the  sun  shines  brightly  on  them  thru  the  stripped  Autumn  vines. 

Days  and  days  pass  slowly  by, 

Still  they  measure  sugar  in  the  grocery, 

Lump  and  lump,  and  always  none 

For  Gaston  and  Marie, 

And  for  little  Jeanne,  one. 

But  listen,  Children.    Over  there, 

In  blue,  peaked  Germany,  the  fairies  are. 

Witches  who  live  in  pine-tree  glades, 

Gnomes  deep  in  mines,  with  pickaxes  and  spades, 

Fairies  who  dance  upon  round  grass  rings, 

And  a  Rhine-river  where  a  Lorelei  sings. 

The  kind  German  fairies  know  of  your  prayer, 

They  caught  it  as  it  went  through  the  air. 

Hush,  Children!    Christmas  is  coming. 

Christmas,  and  fairies,  and  cornucopias  of  sugar-plums! 

Hollow  thunder  over  the  Hartz  mountains. 

Hollow  thunder  over  the  Black  Forest. 

Hollow  thunder  over  the  Rhine. 

Hollow  thunder  over  "  Unter  den  Linden." 

Thunder  kettles, 

Swung  above  green  lightning  fires, 

Forked  and  spired  lightning 

Cooking  candy. 

Bubble,  froth,  stew! 

Stir,  old  women; 

Stir,  Generals  and  spur-heeled  young  officers; 

Stir,  misshapen  Kaiser, 

And  shake  the  steam  from  your  up-turned  moustachios. 

Streaked  and  polished  candy  you  make  here, 

With  hot  sugar  and — other  things; 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  267 

Strange  powders  and  liquids 

Dropped  out  of  little  flasks, 

Drop — 

Drop — 

Into  the  bubbling  sugar, 

And  all  Germany  laughs. 

For  years  the  people  have  eaten  the  currants  and  honey  of  Bar-le- 

Duc, 

Now  they  will  give  back  sweetness  for  sweetness. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  from  Posen  to  Munich. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  in  Schleswig-Holstein. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  flowing  along  with  the  Rhine  waves. 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  echoing  round  the  caves  of  Riigen. 
Germany  splits  its  sides  with  laughing, 
And  sets  out  its  candles  for  the  coming  of  the  Christ-child. 

"Heilige  Nacht!"  and  great  white  birds  flying  over  Germany. 

Are  the  storks  returning  in  mid-Winter? 

"Heilige  Nacht!"  the  tree  is  lit  and  the  gifts  are  ready. 

Steady,  great  birds,  you  have  flown  past  Germany, 

And  are  hanging  over  Bar-le-Duc,  in  France. 

The  moon  is  bright, 

The  moon  is  clear, 

Come,  little  Children,  the  fairies  are  here. 

The  good  German  fairies  who  heard  your  prayer, 

See  them  floating  in  the  star-pricked  air. 

The  cornucopias  shake  on  the  tree, 

And  the  star-lamps  glitter  brilliantly. 

A  shower  of  comfits,  a  shower  of  balls, 

Peppermint,  chocolate,  marzipan  falls. 

Red  and  white  spirals  glint  in  the  moon. 

Soon  the  fairies  answered  you — 

Soon! 

Soon! 

Bright  are  the  red  and  white  streaked  candies  in  the  moonlight: 

White  corpse  fingers  pointing  to  the  sky, 

Round  blood-drops  glistening  like  rubies. 

Fairyland  come  true: 

Just  pick  and  pick  and  suck,  and  chew. 


268  NEW  VOICES 

Sugar  and  sweetness  at  last, 

Shiny  stuff  of  joy  to  be  had  for  the  gathering. 

The  blood-drops  melt  on  the  tongue, 

The  corpse  fingers  splinter  and  crumble. 

Weep  white  tears,  Moon. 

Soon!    So  soon! 

Something  rattles  behind  a  hedge, 

Rattles— rattles. 

An  old  skeleton  is  sitting  on  its  thighbones 

And  holding  its  giggling  sides. 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

Bar-le-Duc  had  currants  red, 

Now  she  has  instead  her  dead. 

Little  children,  sweet  as  honey, 

Bright  as  currants, 

Like  berries  snapped  off  and  packed  in  coffins. 

The  skeleton  dances, 

Dances  in  the  moonlight, 

And  his  fingers  crack  like  castanets. 

In  blue,  peaked  Germany 

The  cooks  wear  iron  crosses, 

And  the  scullery  maids  trip  to  church 

In  new  ribbons  sent  from  Potsdam. 

Amy  Lowell 

SPRING  SOWS  HER  SEEDS 

Why  are  you  doing  it  this  year,  Spring? 
Why  do  you  do  this  useless  thing? 

Do  you  not  know  there  are  no  men  now? 
Why  do  you  put  on  an  apple  bough 
Buds,  and  in  a  girl's  heart,  thronging 
Strange  emotions:  fear,  and  longing, 

Eager  flight,  and  shy  pursuing, 
Noble  thoughts  for  her  undoing; 

Wondering,  accepting,  straining, 
Wistful  seizing,  and  refraining; 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  269 

Stern  denying,  answering? 

— Why  do  you  toil  so  drolly,  Spring? 

Who  do  you  scheme  and  urge  and  plan 
To  make  a  girl's  heart  ripe  for  a  man, 

While  the  men  are  herded  together  where 
Death  is  the  woman  with  whom  they  pair? 

Back  fall  my  words  to  my  listening  ear. 
Spring  is  deaf,  and  she  cannot  hear. 

Spring  is  blind,  and  she  cannot  see. 
She  does  not  know  what  war  may  be. 

Spring  goes  by,  with  her  age-old  sowing 

Of  seeds  in  each  girls'  heart;  kind,  unknowing. 

And,  too,  in  my  heart,  (Spring,  oh,  heed!) 
Now  in  my  own  has  fallen  a  seed. 

(Spring,  give  over!)  I  cringe,  afraid. 
(Though  I  suffer,  harm  no  other  maid!) 

I  hide  my  eyes,  a  budding  tree 
Is  so  terrible  to  see. 

I  stop  my  ears,  a  bird  song  clear 
Is  a  dreadful  thing  to  hear. 

Seeds  in  each  girl's  heart  she  goes  throwing. 
Oh,  the  crop  of  pain  that  is  growing! 

Mary  Carolyn  Dames 


ROUGE  BOUQUET 

In  a  wood  they  call  the  Rouge  Bouquet 
There  is  a  new  made  grave  to-day, 
Built  by  never  a  spade  nor  pick 
Yet  covered  with  earth  ten  meters  thick. 


270  NEW  VOICES 

There  lie  many  fighting  men, 

Dead  in  their  youthful  prime, 
Never  to  laugh  nor  love  again 

Nor  taste  the  Summertime. 
For  Death  came  flying  through  the  air 
And  stopped  his  flight  at  the  dugout  stair, 
Touched  his  prey  and  left  them  there, 

Clay  to  clay. 

He  hid  their  bodies  stealthily 
In  the  soil  of  the  land  they  sought  to  free 

And  fled  away. 
Now  over  the  grave  abrupt  and  clear 

Three  volleys  ring; 
And  perhaps  their  brave  young  spirits  hear 

The  bugle  sing: 
"Go  to  sleep! 
Go  to  sleep! 

Slumber  well  where  the  shell  screamed  and  fell. 
Let  your  rifles  rest  on  the  muddy  floor, 
You  will  not  need  them  any  more. 
Danger's  past; 
Now  at  last, 
Go  to  sleep!" 

There  is  on  earth  no  worthier  grave 
To  hold  the  bodies  of  the  brave 
Than  this  place  of  pain  and  pride 
Where  they  nobly  fought  and  nobly  died. 
Never  fear  but  in  the  skies 
Saints  and  angels  stand 
Smiling  with  their  holy  eyes 

On  this  new-come  band. 
St.  Michael's  sword  darts  through  the  air 
And  touches  the  aureole  on  his  hair 
As  he  sees  them  stand  saluting  there, 

His  stalwart  sons; 
And  Patrick,  Brigid,  Columkill 
Rejoice  that  in  veins  of  warriors  still 

The  Gael's  blood  runs. 
And  up  to  Heaven's  doorway  floats, 


PATRIOTISM  AND  THE  GREAT  WAR  271 

From  the  wood  called  Rouge  Bouquet, 
A  delicate  cloud  of  buglenotes 

That  softly  say: 
"Farewell! 
Farewell! 

Comrades  true,  born  anew,  peace  to  you! 
Your  souls  shall  be  where  the  heroes  are 
And  your  memory  shine  like  the  morning-star. 
Brave  and  dear, 
Shield  us  here. 
Farewell!" 

Joyce  Kilmer 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 

For  thousands  of  generations  men  have  loved  women  and 
women  have  loved  men.  Through  love  they  have  known  emo- 
tions of  innumerable  tones  and  flavors  and  colors.  They  have 
shared  the  rapture  of  the  morning  stars  singing  together  and 
they  have  tasted  the  bitter  waters  of  Marah.  Poets  have  made 
this  rapture  and  this  bitterness  communicable  by  singing  with 
powerful  emotional  honesty  the  thing  that  was  in  their  hearts. 

To-day,  as  in  the  past,  poets  are  stirred  by  thoughts  of  love 
and  of  the  old,  primal  things  of  the  race.  They  write  many 
poems  about  these  things.  But  it  is  more  difficult  to  find  a  good 
poem  of  love  than  to  find  any  other  kind  of  a  good  poem.  It  is 
not  that  the  lyrics  of  love  are  badly  written.  They  have  charm 
and  grace.  But  they  lack  something  that  would  make  them 
great;  perhaps  faith  and  dignity.  Perhaps  they  are  not  quite 
strong  enough,  true  enough,  fresh  enough. 

It  may  be  that  the  reason  for  this  is  to  be  found  in  the  kind 
of  men  and  women  we  moderns  are.  We  are  pleasant  and 
charming.  We  are  seldom  great.  And  to  write  a  great  poem  of 
love  a  person  must  have  had  the  capacity  for  loving  as  the  great 
love  and  also  the  capacity  for  expressing  himself.  He  may  have 
missed  his  fulfillment.  He  may  have  been  thwarted  in  his  de- 
velopment. Life  may  have  been  hurt  for  him  by  some  one  else. 
He  may  have  lived  far,  far  below  his  best  level  of  achievement. 
But  the  man  who  writes  great  love  poetry  must  have  had,  at 
one  time  or  another  in  his  lif e,  a  latent  greatness  of  personality. 
For  better  than  anything  else  love  poetry  reveals  a  person's 
"  might-have-been." 

We  have  in  contemporary  literature,  as  has  been  said,  a  great 
many  poems  of  love.  Most  of  them  fall  into  either  one  of  two 
groups,  a  group  of  poems  of  untrammeled  naturalism  and  a 
group  of  poems  gracefully  conventional.  Outside  of  these  two 
groups  are  a  few  very  beautiful  lyrics. 

272 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      273 

The  naturalistic  love  poems,  it  should  suffice  to  say,  are  poems 
that  glorify  the  fleeting  passions  and  write  a  question  mark  after 
the  story  of  Baucis  and  Philemon.  They  are  sophisticated 
poems,  very  far  indeed  from  the  strong  sanity  of  the  folk.  They 
are  pessimistic  poems,  written  as  if  their  makers  were  a  little 
bit  afraid  of  loving  any  one  person  long  enough  to  let  it  become  a 
habit.  The  ideal  of  a  growth  in  love  and  of  a  love  fostered 
through  the  years  seems  to  be  alien  to  the  philosophy  of  the 
poets  who  give  us  these  naturalistic  lyrics.  To  them,  love  and 
life  are  forever  experimental. 

The  makers  of  the  graceful  lyrics,  on  the  other  hand,  all  too 
often  see  love  through  the  eyes  of  their  dead  forefathers,  and 
make  of  it  simply  a  convention  for  literary  uses.  In  their  songs 
love  is  a  theme,  like  the  subject  of  a  child's  composition.  They 
spin  about  it  their  inconsequent  gossamers  of  literary  fancy. 
To  speak  one  word  of  light  and  fire  seems  to  be  beyond  their 
power  and  beyond  their  desire. 

The  more  poems  of  love  we  read,  the  more  we  are  likely  to 
return  mentally  to  the  line  from  Rupert  Brooke's  sonnet, 
*' Peace"  in  which  he  speaks  of 

"their  dirty  songs  and  dreary, 
And  all  the  little  emptiness  of  love." 

Certainly  we  have  few  poems  of  love  by  contemporary  poets 
that  will  bear  comparison  with  the  lyrics  of  love  made  by  our 
predecessors  on  this  continent,  the  American  Indians,  and  col- 
lected in  translation  and  included  in  a  book  edited  by  George  W. 
Cronyn,  called  "The  Path  on  The  Rainbow."  These  poems  are 
simple  and  passionate,  clean  and  strong,  just  what  love  songs 
should  be.  The  lines  of  the  Ojibwa  poem,  "  Calling-One's-Own," 
are  resonant  with  the  spirit  of  a  great  poet. 

"  Awake!  flower  of  the  forest,  sky-treading  bird  of  the  prairie. 
Awake!  awake!  wonderful  fawn-eyed  one. 

When  you  look  upon  me  I  am  satisfied;  as  flowers  that  drink  dew. 
The  breath  of  your  mouth  is  the  fragrance  of  flowers  in  the  morning, 
Your  breath  is  their  fragrance  at  evening  in  the  moon-of -fading-leaf." 


274  NEW  VOICES 

In  such  poems  we  find  no  tiresome  self-analysis,  no  gross- 
ness,  no  mental  sickness.  Here  is  song  as  fresh  and  innocent 
as  the  fragrance  of  flowers  in  the  "moon-of -fading-leaf." 

One  of  the  finest  groups  of  love  poems  written  in  recent  years 
is  the  "Sonnets  of  A  Portrait  Painter,"  by  Arthur  Davison 
Ficke.  A  few  of  them  have  the  fault  of  being  somewhat  literary 
in  diction,  but  most  of  them  are  intensely  human  and  written 
with  great  fluency,  charm,  and  naturalness  of  rhythm.  Some- 
times a  pause  in  just  the  right  place  gives  to  a  line  the  very  qual- 
ity and  accent  of  a  lover's  speech.  And  to  have  accomplished 
that  in  the  old,  old  pattern  of  the  sonnet,  is  to  have  achieved  an 
unexpected  miracle.  Such  lines  are  these,  taken  from  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  sonnets,  which  begins,  "I  am  in  love  with  high, 
far-seeing  places." 

"You  who  look  on  me  with  grave  eyes  where  rapture 

And  April  love  of  living  burn  confessed — 
The  gods  are  good!  the  world  lies  free  to  capture! 

Life  has  no  walls.    Oh,  take  me  to  your  breast! 
Take  me — be  with  me  for  a  moment's  span! 

I  am  in  love  with  all  unveiled  faces. 
I  seek  the  wonder  at  the  heart  of  man; 

I  would  go  up  to  the  far-seeing  places." 

Another,  the  tenth,  begins  with  all  the  wistful  and  wilf ul  im- 
mediacy of  love — 

"Come  forth:  for  Spring  is  singing  in  the  boughs 

Of  every  white  and  tremulous  apple-tree. 
This  is  the  season  of  eternal  vows; 

But  what  are  vows  that  they  should  solace  me?  " 

Everybody  who  wishes  to  know  the  best  lyrics  of  love  written 
in  recent  years  should  read,  with  other  things,  some  of  these 
sonnets. 

Of  the  tragic  poetry  of  love  we  have  little  in  the  poetry  of 
to-day.  It  is  the  modern  fashion  to  be  perennially  and  per- 
sistently cheerful,  and  sometimes  one  is  tempted  to  think  that 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      275 

that  peculiar  child  Polyanna  has  been  preaching  the  "glad 
game"  to  the  poets.  At  any  rate,  we  can  find  in  contemporary 
literature  few  poems  to  compare,  either  in  sadness  or  in  beauty, 
with  Lyric  XIV  from  "A  Shropshire  Lad"  by  A.  E.  Housman. 
The  bitterness  of  love  denied  is  sharply  felt  in  this  poem,  and 
felt  just  as  it  is  felt  in  life.  The  unhappy  lover  sees  the  "  care- 
less people"  who  "call  their  souls  their  own"  coming  and  going 
in  the  world  about  him.  His  sorrow  sets  him  apart  from  them, 
in  his  own  mind.  His  misery  is,  for  him,  unique.  It  makes 
the  world  seem  frivolous.  That  is  the  psychology  of  it.  This 
masterly  little  poem  in  five  stanzas  closes  with  these  lines: 

"There  flowers  no  balm  to  sain  him 

From  east  of  earth  to  west 
That's  lost  for  everlasting 

The  heart  out  of  his  breast. 

"  Here  by  the  labouring  highway 

With  empty  hands  I  stroll: 
Sea-deep,  till  doomsday  morning, 

Lie  lost  my  heart  and  soul." 

Mr.  Housman  has  spoken  the  almost  unutterable  sense  of  loss 
that  oppresses  all  young  lovers  who  have  loved  greatly  and  are 
bereft  of  love. 

Other  men  have  written  good  poems  of  love,  sometimes  quite 
a  number  of  them,  sometimes  only  a  few.  Bliss  Carman  has. 
G.  K.  Chesterton  has.  But  surely  it  is  fair  to  say  that  no  one  man 
stands  head  and  shoulders  above  his  fellows,  to-day,  as  a  poet  of 
the  love  of  man  for  woman. 

Much  better  things  can  be  said  of  the  women  who  are  singing 
songs  of  the  love  of  woman  for  man.  The  love  songs  of  modern 
women  are  more  virile  and  beautiful — if  one  may  say  that  of  - 
woman's  work  of  expression — than  the  love  songs  of  men.  This 
is  probably  because  women  are  learning  to  use  their  own  voices 
and  sing  their  own  songs  now  almost  for  the  first  time  in  Anglo- 
Saxon  history.  No  matter  how  talkative  they  may  have  been 
in  private  life,  in  public  women  used  to  keep  silence.  And  until 


276  NEW  VOICES 

the  time  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  and  Christina  Rossetti 
women  sang  only  what  they  thought  they  were  expected  to  sing. 
The  conventions  of  an  androcentric  culture  imposed  upon  wo- 
men a  spiritual  bondage  of  reserve,  indirection  and  disguise, 
from  which  only  great  genius  or  unusual  daring  could  set  them 
free.  But  it  is  the  custom  of  critics  who  compare  the  small 
achievement  of  women  in  the  arts,  and  especially  in  poetry, 
with  the  great  achievements  of  their  brothers,  to  forget  or  ignore 
the  lets  and  hindrances  that  in  ancient  times,  and  in  mediaeval 
tunes,  often  prevented  women  from  learning  to  express  them- 
selves adequately.  Silence  and  repression  were  enjoined  upon 
women  by  nearly  all  of  the  ancient  religious  systems,  and  the 
obligations  that  life  imposed  upon  them  were  so  heavy  that 
small  opportunity  was  left  for  the  exercise  of  any  gift  of  expres- 
sion. 

When  women  did  begin  to  make  their  thoughts  and  feelings 
into  poems  they  were  still  timid.  A  pen  name  was  a  prop  to 
confidence.  And  they  practised  another  device  which  served 
to  conceal  their  own  personal  feelings;  they  dramatized  the 
emotions  of  men  hi  their  lyrics.  To  dramatize  masculine  emo- 
tions or  emotions  of  any  other  kind  in  narrative  and  dramatic 
poetry  is  all  very  well  and  a  part  of  being  an  artist.  But  the 
subjective  and  personal  lyric  which  is  not  the  sincere  expression 
of  genuine  emotion  lacks  vitality  simply  because  it  lacks  direct- 
ness of  appeal. 

It  is  a  fine  thing,  therefore,  to  be  able  to  say  that  the  day  of 
the  bondage  of  silence  has  gone  by  for  women,  we  hope  forever. 
In  our  times  a  number  of  women  here  and  across  the  water 
have  begun  to  sing  with  competent  sincerity  of  the  love  of 
woman  for  man.  To-day  real  emotions  are  beginning  to  find 
a  real  expression  and  we  are  beginning  to  hope  that,  some  day, 
we  shall  have  a  great  poet  of  womanhood  who  will  sing  for  the 
world  of  the  woman's  way  of  loving. 

It  will  be  a  great  word,  that  woman's  word,  when  it  is  spoken. 
It  will  be  a  word  of  the  race  as  much  as  of  the  individual,  strong 
with  the  spirit  of  the  folk,  and  not  remote  from  the  plain,  homely 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      277 

things  of  life.  For  the  love  of  the  best  women  for  the  men  who 
are  their  mates  is  a  love  that  is  racial  as  well  as  individual.  The 
woman  who  will  make  these  great  poems  of  to-morrow  must 
have  the  wholesome  vitality  of  a  peasant,  the  virtue  of  a 
peasant,  and  the  sensitivity  of  a  great  artist.  .  .  . 

The  women  who  are  making  the  best  contemporary  lyrics  of 
love  have  learned  the  first  lesson  of  poetry,  which  is  sincerity. 
They  are  capable  of  spiritual  bravery.  They  do  not  pose.  They 
strip  off  old  cloaks  and  masks.  They  offer  the  world  the  best  of 
themselves.  Perhaps  they  even  believe  that  nothing  but  their 
best  is  worthy  of  acceptance  by  the  people.  That  may  be  why 
the  word  " poetess,"  with  all  its  suggestion  of  tepid  and  insipid 
achievement,  has  gone  out  of  fashion.  To-day  a  few  women  are 
not  "poetesses,"  but  poets. 

One  of  them  is  Irene  Rutherford  McLeod.  She  has  written 
a  number  of  fine  lyrics  of  love  and  is  still  so  young  that  we  have 
great  hope  that  she  will  be  heard  often  and  for  a  long  time  to 
come.  Her  poem,  "So  beautiful  You  Are  Indeed"  is  a  record  of 
that  step  into  infinity,  beyond  madness  and  beyond  wisdom, 
which  great  love  sometimes  enables  the  spirit  of  a  man  and  the 
spirit  of  a  woman  to  take  together. 

"And  when  you  bring  your  lips  to  mine 
My  spirit  trembles  and  escapes, 
And  you  and  I  are  turned  divine, 
Bereft  of  our  familiar  shapes. 

"  And  fearfully  we  tread  cold  space, 
Naked  of  flesh  and  winged  with  flame. 
.  .  .  Until  we  find  us  face  to  face, 
Each  calling  on  the  other's  name." 

Just  as  brave  and  just  as  lovely  is  Grace  Fallow  Norton's 
lyric,  "Love  Is  A  Terrible  Thing."  Men  will  hardly  understand 
this  poem  as  well  as  women.  It  is  essentially  feminine.  If  a 
man  were  to  say  that  "Love  is  a  terrible  thing"  he  would  not 
mean  what  a  woman  means  when  she  says  it. 


278  NEW  VOICES 

" '  For  there  is  a  flame  that  has  blown  too  near, 
And  there  is  a  name  that  has  grown  too  dear, 
And  there  is  a  fear  .  .  . ' 

And  to  the  still  hills  and  cool  earth  and  far  sky 

I  made  moan, 

'The  heart  in  my  bosom  is  not  my  own! 

'O  would  I  were  free  as  the  wind  on  the  wing; 
Love  is  a  terrible  thing!"3 

This  is  an  admirable  poem,  not  only  because  of  its  sincerity,  but 
because  it  is  a  rare  combination  of  lyrical  rhythm  with  the  ca- 
dences of  natural  speech. 

In  her  poem,  "Homage,"  Helen  Hoyt  speaks  with  reverence. 
This  stanza  is  a  clue  to  the  meaning  of  the  whole: 

"Not  to  myself,  I  knew,  belonged  your  homage: 
I  but  the  vessel  of  your  holy  drinking, 
The  channel  to  you  of  that  olden  wonder 
Of  love  and  womanhood, — I  but  a  woman." 

Preeminent  among  living  women  who  have  written  love  songs 
with  competent  sincerity,  is  Sara  Teasdale.  Her  philosophy  of 
poetry  is  a  philosophy  of  absolute  fidelity  to  the  truth  as  it  is 
felt.  She  believes  that  poets  who  will  report  themselves  truly 
to  the  world  can  hardly  fail,  if  they  be  poets  in  any  real  sense, 
to  give  the  world  poetry  of  unquestioned  excellence.  She  be- 
lieves that  the  worst  of  all  artistic  immoralities  is  to  say  in  a 
lyric  what  has  not  been  felt  in  the  heart.  The  statements  made 
in  it  may  be  fancy  or  fiction,  but  the  thing  that  is  felt  in  it, — 
that  must  be  true.  Otherwise  it  can  not  have  that  certain  and 
insistent  quality  which  claims  the  allegiance  of  mankind  and 
makes  it  not  only  unique  but  universal. 

Sara  Teasdale  has  been  true  to  this  philosophy.  She  has  been 
emotionally  honest.  She  has  keenly  felt  things  that  all  women 
feel  and  she  has  given  her  emotions  a  true  form  and  significance. 
Therefore  her  little  songs,  with  their  often  wistful  and  sometimes 
exultant  beauty,  are  now  cherished  by  lovers  of  poetry  wherever 
English  is  spoken.  And,  although  her  work  has  only  been  in 


SARA    TEASDALE 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      279 

general  circulation  for  about  ten  years,  many  of  her  poems  have 
been  translated  into  other  languages.  It  is  not  too  much  to 
claim  that  her  best  lyrics  have  the  indefinable  manner  which 
belongs  to  poetry  that  lives. 

Her  earlier  poems  express  a  whimsical  coquetry  that  is  de- 
lightfully feminine,  and  rich  in  the  innocent,  inherited  wisdom 
of  girlhood.  This  coquetry  gives  charm  to  such  songs  as  "Four 
Winds,"  in  which  she  says, 

"When  thou  art  more  cruel  than  he, 
Then  will  love  be  kind  to  thee." 

The  same  coquetry  is  in  the  refrain  of  "The  Flight." 

"But  what  if  I  heard  my  first  love  calling  me  once  more?" 

It  persists  with  pleasing  insouciance  in  two  little  quatrains 
called  "Love  Me,"  and  in  two  others  that  make  a  poem  called 
"The  Look."  It  is  an  essential  part  of  the  delicate  pathos  of 
"The  Song  for  Colin": 

"Pierrot  laid  down  his  lute  to  weep, 

And  sighed,  '  She  sings  for  me/ 
But  Colin  slept  a  careless  sleep 

Beneath  an  apple  tree." 

In  poems  written  a  little  later  we  find  much  more  than  this 
coquetry  in  the  revelation  of  girlhood.  The  inward  reaching  of  a 
woman's  spirit  toward  that  which  she  does  not  yet  know,  the 
mystical  and  undefined  longing  for  fulfillment,  like  the  longing 
of  the  branch  for  bud  and  blossom,  these  also  she  has  expressed 
in  her  poems,  "Twilight,"  "A  Winter  Night,"  "Spring  Night," 
and  others.  In  "Spring  Night,"  especially,  the  mood  is  exquis- 
itely expressed. 

"Why  am  I  crying  after  love 

With  youth,  a  singing  voice,  and  eyes 

To  take  earth's  wonder  by  surprise?  " 

If  this  were  all,  it  would  not  be  enough.  But  it  is  the 
smallest  part  of  the  beauty  of  her  work.  Her  poems  of  the 


2  So  NEW  VOICES 

finding  of  love  never  lack  warmth  and  dignity.  They  are 
never  purely  "literary."  They  never  stagger  through  sloughs 
of  metrical  sentimentality.  They  are  clean  and  simple.  And, 
if  they  lack  the  elemental  vigor  that  has  thrilled  and  shaken 
our  spirits  in  the  best  love  poetry  written  by  men,  they  keep 
always  a  certain  glowing  depth  which  is  a  part  of  the  constancy 
of  the  love  of  women. 

Nor  is  it  possible  for  a  critic  to  refrain  from  mentioning  her 
beautiful  craftsmanship.  She  gives  us  melodies  that  are  quiet, 
cool,  sweet-flowing,  of  one  kind  with  her  emotion,  the  appropri- 
ate accompaniment  of  her  meanings.  They  are  always  varied  so 
that  they  avoid  monotony.  She  chooses  for  her  poems  such 
symbols  and  images  as  are  natural  and  relevant,  avoiding  all 
that  is  striking  and  sensational.  She  is  never  that  most  deplor- 
able of  all  pseudo-artists,  the  clever  poet.  And  she  is  never  trite, 
for  all  of  her  poems  are  the  result  of  personal  realization.  She 
uses  language  without  affectation,  language  simple  enough  for 
great  and  venerable  uses.  Her  poems  reecho  in  us  because  we 
can  not  fail  to  know  at  once  just  what  they  mean.  They  have  a 
very  remarkable  clarity. 

Perhaps  her  song,  "I  Would  Live  In  Your  Love,"  brings  her 
as  near  as  any  of  her  lyrics  to  the  ancient  racial  significance  of 
the  love  of  woman  for  man.  It  is  short,  poignant,  perfect  ac- 
cording to  its  kind.  In  it,  as  in  all  of  her  finest  poems,  she  uses  a 
single  symbol  to  carry  the  weight  of  the  thought.  Anyone  who 
knows  the  sea  has  watched  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  sea-grasses, 
lifted  and  flattened  out  alternately  by  the  flowing  and  ebbing 
of  waves.  That  is  the  symbol  of  a  woman's  love  which  she  uses 
in  this  magical  stanza: 

"I  would  live  in  your  love  as  the  sea-grasses  live  in  the  sea, 
Borne  up  by  each  wave  as  it  passes,  drawn  down  by  each  wave  that 
recedes." 

In  the  poem,  "Peace,"  the  symbol  of  the  woman  who  loves  is  the 
pool: 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  281 

"I  am  the  pool  of  gold 

When  sunset  burns  and  dies — 

You  are  my  deepening  skies; 
Give  me  your  stars  to  hold!" 

But  the  noblest  and  most  satisfying  of  all  of  her  poems  of  love 
is  one  quite  recently  written  in  the  incomparable  Sapphic 
rhythm.  In  it  love  has  become  a  light  for  the  spirit  in  the 
ancient  and  eternal  quest  for  the  ultimate  beauty  and  truth  in 
the  universe.  This  poem  is  called  "The  Lamp."  It  says  more 
than  the  words  of  any  critic  can  say  of  the  delicately  woven 
beauty,  the  quiet  but  shimmering  colors  of  Sara  Teasdale's 
best  work.  The  strands  of  her  poetry  are  not  rough  and  robust. 
The  hues  of  it  shade  into  no  strident  scarlet,  no  flaring  orange 
and  green.  But  slender  things  are  sometimes  strong  things, 
small  things  are  sometimes  great.  And  these  little  vari-colored 
lyrics  show  that  she  has  felt  poignantly,  that  she  has  shared  the 
prescient  and  oracular  moods  of  womanhood,  and  has  expressed 
them  with  a  warmth  and  intimacy  not  incompatible  with  fine 
artistic  restraint. 

Close  akin  to  the  poetry  of  love,  in  the  minds  of  women,  is 
the  poetry  of  motherhood  and  home.  And  this  chapter  would 
hardly  be  complete  without  brief  mention  of  two  poems  about 
birth.  They  are  "The  Canticle  of  The  Babe,"  by  Josephine 
Preston  Peabody,  a  subjective  lyric  of  motherhood  with  unusual 
dignity  and  beauty,  and  "Birth"  by  Jean  Starr  Untermeyer, 
a  poem  which  tells  what  another  woman  feels,  standing  beside  a 
young  mother  in  her  hour  of  travail.  Mrs.  Untermeyer's  poem, 
"Autumn"  is  also  an  interesting  and  original  piece  of  work. 
It  celebrates  "pickling  day"  and  is  neither  humorous  nor  sen- 
timental as  poems  of  the  home  used  to  be.  Instead  it  has  some- 
thing of  the  dignity  that  rightly  belongs  to  the  most  fundamental 
of  all  labors,  the  labor  of  preparing  food,  and  it  pays  tribute,  in 
high,  just  fashion  to  the  genius  of  the  home  who  is  the  genius  of 
the  folk,  the  mother.  Mrs.  Untermeyer  says: 


282  NEW  VOICES 

"  And  you  moved  among  these  mysteries, 

Absorbed  and  smiling  and  sure; 

Stirring,  tasting,  measuring, 

With  the  precision  of  a  ritual. 

I  like  to  think  of  you  in  your  years  of  power— 

You,  now  so  shaken  and  so  powerless — 

High  priestess  of  your  home." 


CALLING-ONE'S-OWN 

Awake!  flower  of  the  forest,  sky-treading  bird  of  the  prairie. 

Awake!  awake!  wonderful  fawn-eyed  One. 

When  you  look  upon  me  I  am  satisfied;  as  flowers  that  drink  dew. 

The  breath  of  your  mouth  is  the  fragrance  of  flowers  in  the  morning, 

Your  breath  is  their  fragrance  at  evening  in  the  moon-of -fading-leaf . 

Do  not  the  red  streams  of  my  veins  run  toward  you 

As  forest-streams  to  the  sun  in  the  moon  of  bright  nights? 

When  you  are  beside  me  my  heart  sings;  a  branch  it  is,  dancing, 

Dancing  before  the  Wind-spirit  in  the  moon  of  strawberries. 

When  you  frown  upon  me,  beloved,  my  heart  grows  dark — 

A  shining  river  the  shadows  of  clouds  darken, 

Then  with  your  smiles  comes  the  sun  and  makes  to  look  like  gold 

Furrows  the  cold  wind  drew  in  the  water's  face. 

Myself!  behold  me!  blood  of  my  beating  heart. 

Earth  smiles — the  waters  smile — even  the  sky-of-clouds  smiles — but  I, 

I  lose  the  way  of  smiling  when  you  are  not  near, 

Awake!  awake!  my  beloved. 

Translated  from  the  Ojibwa  by 

Charles  Fenno  H  of  man 


ALADDIN  AND  THE  JINN 

"Bring  me  soft  song,"  said  Aladdin; 

"This  tailor-shop  sings  not  at  all. 
Chant  me  a  word  of  the  twilight, 

Of  roses  that  mourn  in  the  fall. 
Bring  me  a  song  like  hashish 

That  will  comfort  the  stale  and  the  sad, 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  283 

For  I  would  be  mending  my  spirit, 

Forgetting  these  days  that  are  bad, 
Forgetting  companions  too  shallow, 

Their  quarrels  and  arguments  thin, 
Forgetting  the  shouting  Muezzin." — 

"/  am  your  slave,"  said  the  Jinn. 

"Bring  me  old  wines,"  said  Aladdin, 

"I  have  been  a  starved  pauper  too  long. 
Serve  them  in  vessels  of  jade  and  of  shell, 

Serve  them  with  fruit  and  with  song: — 
Wines  of  pre- Adamite  Sultans 

Digged  from  beneath  the  black  seas, 
New-gathered  dew  from  the  heavens 

Dripped  down  from  Heaven's  sweet  trees: — 
Cups  from  the  angels'  pale  tables 

That  will  make  me  both  handsome  and  wise, 
For  I  have  beheld  her,  the  princess, 

Firelight  and  starlight  her  eyes 
Pauper  I  am,  I  would  woo  her. 

And — let  me  drink  wine  to  begin, 
Though  the  Koran  expressly  forbids  it." 

"/  am  your  slave,"  said  the  Jinn. 

"Plan  me  a  dome,"  said  Aladdin, 

"That  is  drawn  like  the  dawn  of  the  moon, 
When  the  sphere  seems  to  rest  on  the  mountains, 

Half-hidden,  yet  full-risen  soon. 
Build  me  a  dome,"  said  Aladdin, 

"That  shall  cause  all  young  lovers  to  sigh, 
The  fullness  of  life  and  of  beauty, 

Peace  beyond  peace  to  the  eye — 
A  palace  of  foam  and  of  opal, 

Pure  moonlight  without  and  within, 
Where  I  may  enthrone  my  sweet  lady." 

"/  am  your  slave"  said  the  Jinn. 

Vachel  Lindsay 


284  NEW  VOICES 

MY  LIGHT  WITH  YOURS 

i 

When  the  sea  has  devoured  the  ships, 
And  the  spires  and  the  towers 
Have  gone  back  to  the  hills. 
And  all  the  cities 
Are  one  with  the  plains  again. 
And  the  beauty  of  bronze 
And  the  strength  of  steel 
Are  blown  over  silent  continents,  i 
As  the  desert  sand  is  blown — 
My  dust  with  yours  forever. 

H 

When  folly  and  wisdom  are  no  more, 
And  fire  is  no  more, 
Because  man  is  no  more; 
When  the  dead  world  slowly  spinning 
Drifts  and  falls  through  the  void — 
My  light  with  yours 
In  the  Light  of  Lights  forever! 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 

I  am  in  love  with  high  f ar-seeing  places 

That  look  on  plains  half-sunlight  and  half-storm, 

In  love  with  hours  when  from  the  circling  faces 

Veils  pass,  and  laughing  fellowship  glows  warm. 

You  who  look  on  me  with  grave  eyes  where  rapture 

And  April  love  of  living  burn  confessed — 

The  gods  are  good!  the  world  lies  free  to  capture! 

Life  has  no  walls.    Oh,  take  me  to  your  breast! 

Take  me — be  with  me  for  a  moment's  span! 

I  am  in  love  with  all  unveiled  faces. 

I  seek  the  wonder  at  the  heart  of  man; 

I  would  go  up  to  the  far-seeing  places. 

While  youth  is  ours,  turn  toward  me  for  a  space 

The  marvel  of  your  rapture-lighted  face! 

Arthur  Damson  Fkke 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      285 

There  are  strange  shadows  fostered  of  the  moon, 
More  numerous  than  the  clear-cut  shade  of  day.  .  .  . 
Go  forth,  when  all  the  leaves  whisper  of  June, 
Into  the  dusk  of  swooping  bats  at  play; 
Or  go  into  that  late  November  dusk 
When  hills  take  on  the  noble  lines  of  death, 
And  on  the  air  the  faint  astringent  musk 
Of  rotting  leaves  pours  vaguely  troubling  breath. 
Then  shall  you  see  shadows  whereof  the  sun 
Knows  nothing — aye,  a  thousand  shadows  there 
Shall  leap  and  flicker  and  stir  and  stay  and  run, 
Like  petrels  of  the  changing  foul  or  fair; 
Like  ghosts  of  twilight,  of  the  moon,  of  him 
Whose  homeland  lies  past  each  horizon's  rim.  .  .  . 

Arthur  Damson  Ficke 


HOW  MUCH  OF  GODHOOD 

How  much  of  Godhood  did  it  take — 

What  purging  epochs  had  to  pass, 
Ere  I  was  fit  for  leaf  and  lake 

And  worthy  of  the  patient  grass? 

What  mighty  travails  must  have  been, 

What  ages  must  have  moulded  me, 
Ere  I  was  raised  and  made  akin 

To  dawn,  the  daisy  and  the  sea. 

In  what  great  struggles  was  I  felled, 

In  what  old  lives  I  labored  long, 
Ere  I  was  given  a  world  that  held 

A  meadow,  butterflies,  and  song? 

But  oh,  what  cleansings  and  what  fears, 
What  countless  raisings  from  the  dead, 

Ere  I  could  see  Her,  touched  with  tears, 
Pillow  the  little  weary  head. 

Louis  Untermeyer 


286  NEW  VOICES 


AFTER  TWO  YEARS 

She  is  all  so  slight 
And  tender  and  white 

As  a  May  morning. 
She  walks  without  hood 
At  dusk.    It  is  good 

To  hear  her  sing. 

It  is  God's  will 

That  I  shall  love  her  still 

As  He  loves  Mary. 
And  night  and  day 
I  will  go  forth  to  pray 

That  she  love  me. 


She  is  as  gold 

Lovely,  and  far  more  cold. 

Do  thou  pray  with  me, 
For  if  I  win  grace 
To  kiss  twice  her  face 

God  has  done  well  to  me. 

Richard  Aldington 


NIRVANA 

Sleep  on,  I  lie  at  heaven's  high  oriels, 
Over  the  stars  that  murmur  as  they  go 
Lighting  your  lattice-window  far  below. 

And  every  star  some  of  the  glory  spells 
Whereof  I  know. 

I  have  forgotten  you,  long,  long  ago; 

Like  the  sweet,  silver  singing  of  thin  bells 
Vanished,  or  music  fading  faint  and  low. 

Sleep  on,  I  lie  at  heaven's  high  oriels, 
Who  loved  you  so. 

John  Hall  Wheelock 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      287 


PERENNIAL  MAY 

May  walks  the  earth  again, 
This  old  earth,  and  the  same 
Green  spurts  of  tender  flame 
Burn  now  on  sod  and  tree 
That  burned  when  first  she  came, 
Dear  love,  to  you  and  me. 
If  any  change  there  be — • 
A  greater  or  a  less 
Degree  of  loveliness— 
It  is  not  ours  to  see, 

Dear  love, 
Not  ours  to  feel  or  see. 

May  thrills  our  hearts  again, 
These  old  hearts,  and  the  bough 
Burns  not  with  blossoms  now 
That  blow  more  splendidly. 
For,  since  our  wedded  vow 
Made  one  of  you  and  me, 
If  any  change  there  be — 
A  greater  or  a  less 
Degree  of  tenderness — 
It  is  not  ours  to  see, 

Dear  love, 
Not  ours  to  feel  or  see. 

Thomas  Augustine  Daly 

"SO  BEAUTIFUL  YOU  ARE  INDEED" 

So  beautiful  you  are,  indeed, 
That  I  am  troubled  when  you  come, 
And  though  I  crave  you  for  my  need, 
Your  nearness  strikes  me  blind  and  dumb. 

And  when  you  bring  your  lips  to  mine 
My  spirit  trembles  and  escapes, 
And  you  and  I  are  turned  divine, 
Bereft  of  our  familiar  shapes. 


288  NEW  VOICES 

And  fearfully  we  tread  cold  space, 
Naked  of  flesh  and  winged  with  flame, 
.  .  .  Until  we  find  us  face  to  face, 
Each  calling  on  the  other's  name! 

Irene  Rutherford  McLeod 

"I  SAT  AMONG  THE   GREEN  LEAVES" 

I  sat  among  the  green  leaves,  and  heard  the  nuts  falling, 
The  broadred  butterflies  were  gold  against  the  sun, 

But  in  between  the  silence  and  the  sweet  birds  calling 
The  nuts  fell  one  by  one. 

Why  should  they  fall  and  the  year  but  half  over? 

Why  should  sorrow  seek  me  and  I  so  young  and  kind? 
The  leaf  is  on  the  bough  and  the  dew  is  on  the  clover, 

But  the  green  nuts  are  falling  in  the  wind. 

Oh,  I  gave  my  lips  away  and  all  my  soul  behind  them. 

Why  should  trouble  follow  and  the  quick  tears  start? 
The  little  birds  may  love  and  fly  with  only  God  to  mind  them, 

But  the  green  nuts  are  falling  on  my  heart. 

Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall 

"GRANDMITHER,  THINK  NOT  I  FORGET" 

Grandmither,  think  not  I  forget,  when  I  come  back  to  town, 
An'  wander  the  old  ways  again,  an'  tread  them  up  and  down. 
I  never  smell  the  clover  bloom,  nor  see  the  swallows  pass, 
Wi'out  I  mind  how  good  ye  were  unto  a  little  lass; 
I  never  hear  the  winter  rain  a-pelting  all  night  through 
Wi'out  I  think  and  mind  me  of  how  cold  it  falls  on  you. 
An'  if  I  come  not  often  to  your  bed  beneath  the  thyme, 
Mayhap  't  is  that  I'd  change  wi'  ye,  and  gie  my  bed  for  thine, 
Would  like  to  sleep  in  thine. 

I  never  hear  the  summer  winds  among  the  roses  blow 

Wi'out  I  wonder  why  it  was  ye  loved  the  lassie  so. 

Ye  gave  me  cakes  and  lollipops  and  pretty  toys  a  score — 

I  never  thought  I  should  come  back  and  ask  ye  now  for  more. 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      289 

Grandmither,  gie  me  your  still  white  hands  that  lie  upon  your  breast, 
For  mine  do  beat  the  dark  all  night  and  never  find  me  rest; 
They  grope  among  the  shadows  an'  they  beat  the  cold  black  air, 
They  go  seekin'  in  the  darkness,  an'  they  never  find  him  there, 
They  never  find  him  there. 

Grandmither,  gie  me  your  sightless  eyes,  that  I  may  never  see 
His  own  a-burnin'  full  o'  love  that  must  not  shine  for  me. 
Grandmither,  gie  me  your  peaceful  lips,  white  as  the  kirkyard  snow, 
For  mine  be  tremblin'  wi'  the  wish  that  he  must  never  know. 
Grandmither,  gie  me  your  clay-stopped  ears,  that  I  may  never  hear 
My  lad  a-singin'  in  the  night  when  I  am  sick  wi'  fear; 
A-singin'  when  the  moonlight  over  a'  the  land  is  white — 
Ah,  God!  I'll  up  and  go  to  him,  a-singin'  in  the  night, 
A-callin'  in  the  night. 

Grandmither,  gie  me  your  clay-cold  heart,  that  has  forgot  to  ache, 
For  mine  be  fire  wi'in  my  breast  an'  yet  it  cannot  break. 
Wi'  every  beat  it's  callin'  for  things  that  must  not  be, — 
So  can  ye  not  let  me  creep  in  an'  rest  awhile  by  ye? 
A  little  lass  af eared  o'  dark  slept  by  ye  years  agone — 
An'  she  has  found  what  night  can  hold  'twixt  sunset  an'  the  dawn: 
So  when  I  plant  the  rose  an'  rue  above  your  grave  for  ye, 
Ye'll  know  it's  under  rue  an'  rose  that  I  would  like  to  be, 
That  I  would  like  to  be. 

Willa  Sibert  Gather 


FROST  IN  SPRING 

Oh,  had  it  been  in  Autumn,  when  all  is  spent  and  sere, 
That  the  first  numb  chill  crept  on  us,  with  its  ghostly  hint  of  fear, 
I  had  borne  to  see  love  go,  with  things  detached  and  frail, 
Swept  outward  with  the  blowing  leaf  on  the  unresting  gale. 

But  when  day  is  a  magic  thing,  when  Time  begins  anew, 
When  every  clod  is  parted  by  Beauty  breaking  through,— 
How  can  it  be  that  you  and  I  bring  Love  no  offering, 
How  can  it  be  that  frost  should  fall  upon  us  in  the  Spring! 

Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse 


2  9o  NEW  VOICES 


PATRINS 

You  know,  dear,  that  the  gipsies  strew 
Some  broken  boughs  along  the  way 

To  mark  the  trail  for  one  who  comes, 
A  tardy  pilgrim  of  the  day. 

And  so  my  songs,  that  have  no  worth 
Save  that  best  worth  of  being  true, 

Are  but  as  patrins  strewn  to  show 
The  way  I  came  in  loving  you. 

Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse 

RAIN,  RAIN! 

Rain,  ram — fall,  fall, 
In  a  heavy  screen — • 
That  my  lover  be  not  seen! 

Wind,  wind, — blow,  blow, 
Till  the  leaves  are  stirred — 
That  my  lover  be  not  heard! 

Storm,  storm, — rage,  rage, 
Like  a  war  around — 
That  my  lover  be  not  found! 

.  .  .  Lark,  lark, — hush  .  .  .  hush  .  .  . 
Softer  music  make — 
That  my  lover  may  not  wake  .  .  . 

Zol  Akins 

HOMAGE 

Before  me  you  bowed  as  before  an  altar, 
And  I  reached  down  and  drew  you  to  my  bosom; 
Proud  of  your  reverence,  and  reverence  returning, 
But  craving  most  your  pleasure,  not  your  awe. 

My  hands  about  your  head  curved  themselves,  as  holding 
A  treasure,  fragile  and  of  glad  possession! 
Dear  were  the  bones  of  your  skull  beneath  my  fingers, 
And  I  grew  brave  imagining  your  defence. 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      291 

Not  as  a  man  I  felt  you  in  my  brooding, 
But  merely  a  babe, — a  babe  of  my  own  body: 
Precious  your  worth,  but  dearer  your  dependence: 
Sometimes  I  wished  to  feed  you  at  my  breast. 

Not  to  myself,  I  knew,  belonged  your  homage: 
I  but  the  vessel  of  your  holy  drinking, 
The  channel  to  you  of  that  olden  wonder 
Of  love  and  womanhood, — I,  but  a  woman. 

Then  never  need  your  memory  be  shamefaced 
That  I  have  seen  your  flesh  and  soul  at  worship: 
Do  you  think  I  did  not  kneel  when  you  were  kneeling? 
Even  lowlier  bowed  my  head,  and  bowed  my  heart. 

Helen  Hoyt 

A  LYNMOUTH  WIDOW* 

He  was  straight  and  strong,  and  his  eyes  were  blue 
As  the  summer  meeting  of  sky  and  sea, 
And  the  ruddy  cliffs  had  a  colder  hue 
Than  flushed  his  cheek  when  he  married  me. 

We  passed  the  porch  where  the  swallows  breed, 
We  left  the  little  brown  church  behind, 
And  I  leaned  on  his  arm,  though  I  had  no  need, 
Only  to  feel  him  so  strong  and  kind. 

One  thing  I  never  can  quite  forget; 
It  grips  my  throat  when  I  try  to  pray—- 
The keen  salt  smell  of  a  drying  net 
That  hung  on  the  churchyard  wall  that  day. 

He  would  have  taken  a  long,  long  grave — 

A  long,  long  grave,  for  he  stood  so  tall  .  .  . 

Oh,  God!  the  crash  of  a  breaking  wave, 

And  the  smell  of  the  nets  on  the  churchyard  wall! 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

"From  In  Deep  Places  by  Amelia  Josephine  Burr.     Copyright,  1914,  George  H.  Doran 
Company,  Publishers. 


292  NEW  VOICES 


LOVE  IS  A  TERRIBLE  THING 

I  went  out  to  the  farthest  meadow, 
I  lay  down  in  the  deepest  shadow; 

And  I  said  unto  the  earth,  "Hold  me," 
And  unto  the  night,  "  O  enfold  me," 

And  unto  the  wind  petulantly 

I  cried,  "You  know  not  for  you  are  free!" 

And  I  begged  the  little  leaves  to  lean 
Low  and  together  for  a  safe  screen; 

Then  to  the  stars  I  told  my  tale: 

"That  is  my  home-light,  there  in  the  vale, 

"And  O,  I  know  that  I  shall  return, 
But  let  me  lie  first  mid  the  unfeeling  fern. 

"  For  there  is  a  flame  that  has  blown  too  near, 
And  there  is  a  name  that  has  grown  too  dear, 
And  there  is  a  fear  ..." 

And  to  the  still  hills  and  cool  earth  and  far  sky  I  made  moan, 
"The  heart  in  my  bosom  is  not  my  own! 

"O  would  I  were  free  as  the  wind  on  the  wing; 
Love  is  a  terrible  thing!" 

Grace  Fallow  Norton 


LOVE  SONG 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well 
To  give  it  to  thee  like  a  flower, 

So  it  may  pleasure  thee  to  dwell 
Deep  in  its  perfume  but  an  hour. 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      293 

I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well 

To  sing  it  note  by  note  away, 
So  to  thy  soul  the  song  may  tell 

The  beauty  of  the  desolate  day. 
I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 

I  love  my  life  but  not  too  well 

To  cast  it  like  a  cloak  on  thine, 
Against  the  storms  that  sound  and  swell 

Between  thy  lonely  heart  and  mine. 
I  love  my  life,  but  not  too  well. 

Harriet  Monroe 


LOVE  CAME  BACK  AT  FALL  O'  DEW 

Love  came  back  at  fall  o'  dew, 
Playing  his  old  part; 
But  I  had  a  word  or  two 
That  would  break  his  heart. 


"He  who  conies  at  candlelight, 
That  should  come  before, 
Must  betake  him  to  the  night 
From  a  barred  door." 

This  the  word  that  made  us  part 
In  the  fall  o'  dew; 

This  the  word  that  brake  his  heart — 
Yet  it  brake  mine,  too. 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 


PEACE 

Peace  flows  into  me 

As  the  tide  to  the  pool  by  the  shore; 

It  is  mine  forevermore, 
It  will  not  ebb  like  the  sea. 


296  NEW  VOICES 

To  bloom  for  me! 

His  balmy  fingers  left  a  thrill 

Within  my  breast  that  warms  me  still." 

Then  gazed  she  down  some  wilder,  darker  hour, 
And  said — when  Mary  questioned,  knowing  not: 
"Who  art  thou,  mother  of  so  sweet  a  flower?" — 
"I  am  the  mother  of  Iscariot." 

Agnes  Lee 

SACRIFICE* 

When  apple  boughs  are  dim  with  bloom 

And  lilacs  blossom  by  the  door, 
How  sweetly  poignant  the  perfume 

From  springs  that  are  no  more! 

Strange  how  that  faint,  familiar  scent 

Of  early  lilacs  after  rain 
By  subtle  alchemy  is  blent 

With  childhood's  tenderest  joy  and  pain. 

Across  the  long  mists  of  the  way 

Are  weary  mothers  seen  through  tears; 

They  broke  their  lives  from  day  to  day 
To  pour  this  fragrance  down  the  years. 

Ada  Foster  Murray 


THE  HOUSE  AND  THE  ROAD 

The  little  Road  says,  Go, 
The  little  House  says,  Stay: 
And  O,  it's  bonny  here  at  home, 
But  I  must  go  away. 

The  little  Road,  like  me, 
Would  seek  and  turn  and  know; 
And  forth  I  must,  to  learn  the  things 
The  little  Road  would  show! 

*  Copyright,  1910,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


LOVE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      297 

And  go  I  must,  my  dears, 

And  journey  while  I  may, 

Though  heart  be  sore  for  the  little  House 

That  had  no  word  but  Stay. 

Maybe,  no  other  way 

Your  child  could  ever  know 

Why  a  little  House  would  have  you  stay, 

When  a  little  Road  says,  Go. 

Josephine  Preston  Pedbody 

MY  MIRROR* 

There  is  a  mirror  in  my  room 
Less  like  a  mirror  than  a  tomb, 
There  are  so  many  ghosts  that  pass 
Across  the  surface  of  the  glass. 

When  in  the  morning  I  arise 
With  circles  round  my  tired  eyes, 
Seeking  the  glass  to  brush  my  hair 
My  mother's  mother  meets  me  there. 

If  hi  the  middle  of  the  day 
I  happen  to  go  by  that  way, 
I  see  a  smile  I  used  to  know — 
My  mother,  twenty  years  ago. 

But  when  I  rise  by  candle-light 
To  feed  my  baby  in  the  night, 
Then  whitely  in  the  glass  I  see 
My  dead  child's  face  look  out  at  me. 

Aline  Kilmer 

*From  Candles  That  Burn  by  Aline  Kilmer.     Copyright,  1919,  by  George  H.  Doran 

Company,  Publishers. 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 

The  religious  spirit  is  in  the  poetry  of  to-day,  not  as  a  theme  in 
itself,  and  not  as  propaganda,  but  as  an  all-pervading  force. 
Few  poems  that  are  poems  in  any  real  sense  are  written  "about 
religion,"  or  in  defense  of  doctrines.  This  is  probably  very  for- 
tunate for  poetry  and  for  religion.  For  unless  a  poet  has  been 
caught  in  a  tremendous  tide  of  popular  religious  feeling,  a  re- 
formation or  a  rebirth  of  spirituality,  his  poems  that  discuss 
doctrines  and  his  poems  purposefully  written  "about  religion" 
are  likely  to  be  dry  and  hard  in  their  didacticism.  Or,  if  they 
escape  the  dangers  of  aridity,  poems  made  in  this  purposeful 
way  are  likely  to  fall  into  sticky  sloughs  of  sentimentality 
whither  only  ladies  of  Don  Marquis '  Hermione  group  are  likely 
to  go  to  seek  them.  Among  such  persons  any  poem  in  which 
the  holy  name  of  God  is  mentioned,  will,  if  read  with  perfervid 
intensity,  bring  instantaneous  applause,  no  matter  what  the 
artistic  value  of  the  poem  may  be,  no  matter  what  is  said  about 
Him.  Therefore  it  may  be  a  very  good  thing  that  we  have  few 
poems  of  this  kind,  for,  if  we  had  more,  many  of  them  would 
probably  be  travesties  of  poetry  and  of  religion. 

Moral  didacticism  in  poetry  is  seldom  pleasing  to  the  con- 
temporary poet.  He  prefers  to  leave  lessons  to  the  teacher  and 
sermons  to  the  preacher.  For  this  reason  many  thoughtful 
persons  have  questioned  the  moral  value  and  the  moral  import- 
ance of  our  contemporary  poetry.  But  sincere  thinking  should 
suggest  the  idea  that  poetry  may  be  very  valuable  morally, 
even  when  morals  are  not  pointed  out  and  explained  in  it. 
"Rhymed  ethics"  and  "rhythmical  persuasions"  are  not  neces- 
sarily productive  of  the  finest  worship  and  wonder. 

The  fact  is  simply  this,  that  the  modern  poet  believes  that 
explanations  often  hurt  that  beauty  which  they  are  meant  to 

298 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY          299 

serve.  Therefore  he  paints  his  picture,  sings  his  song,  tells  his 
story,  and  hopes  that  the  light  of  his  spirit  shining  through  his 
work  will  accomplish  the  essential  revelation.  He  trusts  our 
intelligence.  He  believes  that  people  who  have  honest  and  com- 
petent noses  can  tell  a  sprig  of  mignonette  from  a  slice  of  onion 
when  both  are  held  in  convenient  juxtaposition.  He  thinks 
that  he  does  not  need  to  argue  with  us  about  what  is  bad  and 
what  is  good.  He  knows  that  he  must  truly  tell  the  truth  about 
life  and  beautifully  show  the  beauty  in  it.  He  knows,  also, 
that  his  own  sympathies  will  be  in  his  poems  almost  without  his 
consent.  In  his  sympathetic  sharing  of  beauty  and  truth  he 
provides  a  discipline  for  the  human  spirit,  for  to  share  beauty  and 
truth  is  to  be  changed  by  them.  And  forever  and  forever  the 
disciplined  spirits  of  many  good  men  and  women  create,  up- 
hold, and  inspire  good  morals.  It  can  not  be  otherwise.  The 
water  of  the  swamp  is  brackish  because  it  is  in  the  swamp. 
The  water  of  the  spring  is  sweet  because  it  is  in  the  spring.  In 
the  disciplined  spirits  of  the  multitude  and  in  their  power  to 
perceive  and  share  beauty  and  truth  is  the  regeneration  of  the 
race.  Poetry  is  not  impertinent  comment  on  conduct.  It  is  the 
sharing  of  the  best  in  life.  Can  we  truly  say  that  it  has  no  moral 
value? 

Religion  is  in  contemporary  poetry  then,  or,  if  you  like,  God  • 
is  in  it,  as  a  spirit.  This  spirit  touches  all  great  themes.  In  * 
the  minds  of  the  moderns  it  is  one  with  the  love  of  man,  one  with 
the  love  of  man  and  woman,  one  with  the  joy  that  we  feel  in  the 
evanescent  glory  of  a  sunset,  one  with  the  desire  for  democracy 
and  with  the  passions  of  the  evolving  race.  It  is  the  motive 
power  of  our  humanitarian  idealism.  It  belongs  to  hero-wor- 
ship. It  is  in  accord  with  that  fearless  and  passionate  love  of 
the  search  for  truth,  no  matter  how  stern  a  thing  truth  may 
prove  to  be  when  it  is  found,  that  is  a  distinguishing  character- 
istic of  the  devotees  of  science.  And,  since  this  is  true,  we  may 
as  well  admit  that,  in  a  broad,  general  way,  all  good  poems  are 
religious. 

But  poems  have  been  written  by  many  of  our  contemporaries 


300  NEW  VOICES 

that  are  religious  in  a  special  way.  They  are  the  expression  of 
emotions  commonly  called  religious.  They  are  songs  of  worship 
and  wonder.  Or  they  are  poems  that  have  their  source  of 
strength  in  symbols  and  personalities  which  have  long  been 
associated  with  religion  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  Such 
poems  are  exceedingly  valuable  and  should  be  carefully  con- 
sidered. 

One  of  the  loveliest  of  modern  lyrics  of  worship  is  "Lord  of 
My  Heart's  Elation"  by  Bliss  Carman.  It  is  quite  essentially 
a  modern  poem.  No  doctrine  is  urged  upon  us  in  any  line  of  it. 
The  poet  has  not  tied  himself  down  to  earth  with  strands  of 
opinion.  The  faith  of  the  poem  is  a  brave,  agnostic  faith,  a 
faith  that  does  not  know.  It  is  a  strong  poem  of  affirmation 
only  in  so  far  as  it  affirms  the  little  knowledge  which  the  poet 
shares  with  Everyman. 

"As  the  foamheads  are  loosened 
And  blown  along  the  sea, 
Or  sink  and  merge  forever 
In  that  which  bids  them  be. 

"I,  too,  must  climb  in  wonder, 
Uplift  at  thy  command, — 
Be  one  with  my  frail  fellows 
Beneath  the  wind's  strong  hand, 

"  A  fleet  and  shadowy  column 
Of  dust  or  mountain  rain, 
To  walk  the  earth  a  moment 
And  be  dissolved  again." 

But  out  of  this  little  knowledge  comes  the  pure  lyric  cry  of 
worship  and  self -surrender: 

"Be  thou  my  exaltation 
Or  fortitude  of  mien, 
Lord  of  the  world's  elation, 
Thou  breath  of  things  unseen!" 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  301 

Another  lyric  that  is  quite  as  truly  a  poem  of  worship  is 
Joyce  Kilmer's  "Trees,"  the  best  known  of  his  poems  and  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  he  ever  wrote.  The 
charm  of  it  is  in  the  sweetness  and  humility  of  the  emotion 
expressed  and  in  the  absolute  simplicity  and  directness  of  the 
expression.  A  poem,  surely,  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  the  works 
of  man,  and  yet,  to  this  young  Catholic  poet,  the  genesis  of  a 
poem  is  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  growth  of  a  tree. 

"Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree." 

Joyce  Kilmer  has  written  a  number  of  good  religious  poems 
which  will  mean  more  to  Catholics  than  to  other  readers.  Among 
the  best  are  "Folly,"  "Stars,"  "St.  Alexis,"  and  "The  Rosary." 
But  "Trees"  is  a  poem  that  appeals  to  all  men  and  women  who 
have  been  humbled  and  made  reverent  before  the  beauty  of  the 
natural  world. 

"The  Falconer  of  God,"  by  William  Rose  Benet,  is  a  religious 
lyric  of  quite  another  kind.  It  is  a  poem  which  tells  a  story  of 
personal  religious  experience  in  a  most  admirable  way,  in  strong 
and  satisfying  symbols.  Contemporary  poetry  can  offer  nothing 
better  of  its  kind,  little  so  good.  The  falcon  is  Mr.  Benet's  sym- 
bol for  the  human  spirit,  that  is  always  rising  to  seek  and  capture 
a  flying  loveliness.  That  flying  loveliness  is  the  heron: 

"I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon — 
A  wondrous  silver  heron  its  inner  darkness  fledges!" 

The  soaring  falcon  brings  back  a  burden  of  disappointment, 
but  rises  again  and  again  into  the  heavens  seeking  its  own: 

"The  pledge  is  still  the  same — for  all  disastrous  pledges, 

All  hopes  resigned! 
My  soul  still  flies  above  me  for  the  quarry  it  shall  find!" 

When  we  interpret  symbols  we  must  be  guarded,  we  must  speak 
very  finely  and  delicately.    It  is  better  to  say  very  little  than  to 


302  NEW  VOICES 

say  too  much.  But  perhaps  this  is  even  more  than  a  poem  of 
personal  spiritual  experience.  Perhaps  it  tells  the  spiritual  story 
of  Everyman  and  of  the  race.  Certainly,  in  poems  like  this  are 
"wordless,  wondrous  things"  for  all  who  will  have  them.  And 
in  this  poem  they  are  set  to  a  very  lovely  music. 

In  other  poems  of  to-day  that  have  to  do  with  religious  themes 
we  find  the  prescience  of  immortality  which  mankind  has  never 
yet  been  willing  to  forego.  This  is  echoed  again  and  again  in 
Witter  Bynner's  "The  New  World."  It  is  in  an  intimate  and 
exquisite  sonnet  by  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.,  in  which  he  says, 

"  Once  have  I  looked  upon  the  burning  grail, 
And  through  your  eyes  have  seen  beyond  the  grave." 

It  may  be  that  this  belief  in  the  "  communion  of  saints  "  has  been 
strengthened  somewhat  by  the  influence  of  the  poets  of  the  Orient 
whose  way  of  thinking  is  really  communion  or  meditation,  a  way 
of  projecting  the  mind  out  of  self  into  the  world  whose  walls  are 
built  in  air,  whose  gates  must  be  dreams. 

In  sharp  contrast  with  such  poems  as  these  we  may  set  a  poem 
like  Max  Eastman's  "Invocation."  This  is  not  a  poem  to  give 
comfort.  It  is  not  peace,  but  a  sword.  It  is  the  acceptance 
of  the  sword.  It  is  a  poem  about  truth  and  a  prayer  for  truth, 
whether  truth  be  hard  or  easy,  harsh  or  kind.  But  it  is  devout 
and  hardy,  a  masterpiece  in  five  lines. 

"Truth,  be  more  precious  to  me  than  the  eyes 
Of  happy  love!" 

That  is  the  brave  speech  of  thousands  of  the  best  moderns. 

But  the  most  interesting  fact  about  the  religious  poetry  of 
to-day  is  that  we  live  in  a  period  when  nearly  all  poets  are  writing 
about  Christ.  In  a  time  when  the  world  questions  the  validity 
of  many  old  dogmas  and  formulae  once  respected,  the  human 
bravery,  dignity,  cleanliness  and  kindliness  of  the  life  of  Christ 
have  taken  hold  upon  the  imaginations  of  poets  in  a  new  way. 

In  her  admirable  anthology,  "Christ  In  The  Poetry  of  To- 
day," Martha  Foote  Crow  tells  us  that  many,  many  more  good 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  303 

poems  have  been  written  about  Christ  in  the  period  since 
1900  than  were  written  in  the  twenty  years  before  that  time. 
And  it  is  the  especial  merit  of  her  book  that  it  shows  how  Christ 
has  been  all  things  to  all  men.  Each  poet  represented  in  it  may 
be  thought  of  as  speaking  for  thousands  of  men  and  women  who 
would  think  and  feel  as  he  does.  And  this  is  a  collection  of  poems 
by  all  kinds  of  poets,  radical  and  conservative,  not  a  collection  of 
sentimental  conservative  verse.  Some  of  the  poems  are  robust 
character  studies.  Others  are  graceful  legends.  Others  are 
lyrics  of  worship.  But  all  of  them,  whether  written  by  church- 
men or  agnostics,  whether  they  are  written  in  praise  of  the 
Christ  of  the  churches,  or,  out  of  love  for  the  personality  of  the 
Man  of  Sorrows,  are  reverent,  each  in  its  own  way  and  accord- 
ing to  its  kind. 

With  a  very  feminine  gentleness  of  thought  and  emotion 
Lizette  Woodworth  Reese  has  written  a  poem  about  the  baby 
Jesus,  in  which  she  retells  the  legend, 

"The  Ox  put  forth  a  horned  head; 
'Come,  little  Lord,  here  make  Thy  bed.' 

Uprose  the  sheep  were  folded  near; 
'Thou  Lamb  of  God,  come,  enter  here/  " 

Theodosia  Garrison  retells  another  legend,  the  story  of  how 
the  little  Jesus  chose  the  rude  gift  of  the  shepherd,  not  the  rich 
gifts  of  the  wise  kings  to  hold  in  his  small  hands.  The  shepherd's 
gift  was  only  a  little  cross  made  of  twigs, 

"And  in  his  hold  the  cross  lay  cold" 

between  his  heart  and  the  heart  of  the  mother  in  whose  arms  he 
lay. 

Carl  Sandburg  is  a  poet  who  believes  in  the  candor  and  wisdom 
of  childhood.  He  sees  in  the  Christ  Child  a  type  of  this  candor 
and  wisdom.  His  poem  is  about  the  Christ  talking  with  the  old 
men  in  the  temple  when  He  was  only  a  young  lad.  In  describing 


304  NEW  VOICES 

the  boy,  Christ,  Mr.  Sandburg  uses  two  adjectives  which  other 
boys  have  liked  to  use  in  describing  their  friends.  He  says, 

"The  young  child,  Christ,  is  straight  and  wise 
And  asks  questions  of  the  old  men,  questions 
Found  under  running  water  for  all  children, 
And  found  under  shadows  thrown  on  still  waters 
By  tall  trees  looking  downward," 

Who  has  not  seen  a  young  boy,  "straight  and  wise,"  with  clear 
eyes  and  eager  mind  and  heart,  talking  to  old  men  sitting  before 
the  doors  of  home  in  the  evening,  or  on  the  steps  of  the  temple, 
or  in  the  market  place?  Perhaps  it  has  been  in  such  talks  that 
the  great  traditions  of  the  race  and  the  old  folk  tales  have  been 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation.  When  we  see  how 
such  a  poem  is  related  to  life  and  its  homely  realities  we  realize 
that  the  thought  of  Christ  talking  with  the  learned  old  men  in 
the  temple  is  illuminated  and  enlarged  for  us  by  reading  it. 

Many  of  the  poets  have  tried  to  surround  Christ  with  such 
homely  realities  of  life  as  belong  to  simple  people  now  and 
always.  They  have  shown  Him  at  work  with  Joseph  in  the  car- 
penter shop.  Elsa  Barker  tells  of  the  dumb  bewilderment  of 
Joseph,  of  his  love  for  Mary  and  for  her  Child,  in  "The  Vigil  of 
Joseph." 

"'Brawny  these  arms  to  win  Him  bread,  and  broad 
This  bosom  to  sustain  Her.    But  my  heart 
Quivers  in  lonely  pain  before  that  beauty 
It  loves — and  serves — and  cannot  understand!'" 

Sarah  N.  Cleghorn  writes  a  poem  of  quite  another  kind.  She 
shows  us  the  Christ  in  whom  the  Christian  socialists  believe. 
He  is  the  Great  Comrade.  It  is  written  in  sure,  terse,  effective 
language  which  may  seem  unsuitable  to  orthodox  people  who 
have  never  shared  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  those  for  whom 
it  is  intended.  But  to  those  who  have  shared  these  thoughts  and 
emotions  the  poem  will  seem  reverent  and  powerful.  It  is  called 
"Comrade  Jesus"  and  begins  with  these  lines: 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  305 

"Thanks  to  Saint  Matthew,  who  had  been 
At  mass-meetings  in  Palestine, 
We  know  whose  side  was  spoken  for 
When  Comrade  Jesus  had  the  floor." 

Other  answers  we  have  to  the  old,  old  question,  "What  think 
ye  of  Christ?"  In  "The  Unbeliever  "  Anna  Hempstead  Branch 
gives  the  answer  of  the  agnostic: 

"Even  he  that  grieves  thee  most  "Lord,  Lord,"  he  saith; 
So  will  I  call  on  thee  with  my  last  breath! 
Brother,  not  once  have  I  believed  in  thee. 
Yet  am  I  wounded  for  thee  unto  death. 

Even  the  world  that  turns  away  from  the  ecclesiastical  Christ 
subdues  its  heart  and  bends  its  head  before  the  Jesus  of  the 
Crucifixion. 

Florence  Kiper  Frank,  speaking  for  the  Hebrew  people,  ex- 
presses a  strong  racial  sympathy  for  the  noblest  of  martyrs.  In 
her  interesting  sonnet,  "The  Jew  To  Jesus,"  she  says: 

"We  have  drained  the  bitter  cup,  and,  tortured,  felt 

With  thee  the  bruising  of  each  bitter  welt. 

In  every  land  is  our  Gethsemane. 

A  thousand  times  have  we  been  crucified." 

But,  oddly  enough,  one  of  the  strongest  of  modern  poems  about 
Christ  comes  to  us  from  that  arch-radical  and  caustic  critic, 
Ezra  Pound.  It  is  called  the  "Ballad  of  the  Goodly  Fere,"  and 
it  is  written  as  if  it  had  been  spoken  by  Simon  Zelotes  shortly 
after  the  Crucifixion.  Many  poems  have  been  written  about  the 
gentleness  of  Christ.  This  poem  is  about  His  manliness  and  His 
bravery. 

"He  cried  no  cry  when  they  drave  the  nails 
And  the  blood  gushed  hot  and  free, 
The  hounds  of  the  crimson  sky  gave  tongue 
But  never  a  cry  cried  he. 


306  NEW  VOICES 

"  I  ha*  seen  him  cow  a  thousand  men 

On  the  hills  o'  Galilee, 

They  whined  as  he  walked  out  calm  between, 

Wi'  his  eyes  like  the  gray  o'  the  sea. 

"  Like  the  sea  that  brooks  no  voyaging 
With  the  winds  unleashed  and  free, 
Like  the  sea  that  he  cowed  at  Genseret 
Wi'  twey  words  spoke'  suddently." 

Many  other  poems  might  be  quoted  to  show  what  poets  of 
to-day  have  thought  and  felt  about  Christ.  And  readers  of 
these  poems  would  like  or  dislike  them  in  ways  that  would  cor- 
respond to  their  own  personal  answers  to  the  question,  "What 
think  ye  of  Christ?  "  The  poem  that  pleases  the  Christian  social- 
ist will  not  necessarily  please  the  orthodox  churchman.  The 
poem  that  satisfies  the  radical  may  displease  the  conservative. 
But  the  significant  thing  to  remember  is  that  all  kinds  of  men  and 

omen  have  seen,  in  The  King  of  the  Crossed  Trees,  their  own 
idealism,  the  highest  goal  of  their  own  spirits.  Christ,  the  Son 
of  Man,  is,  for  many  persons  in  all  the  warring  sects,  the  arch- 
type  of  spiritual  beauty,  the  personal  force  in  religion.  This  is 
what  the  poets  have  tried  to  put  into  contemporary  religious 
poetry,  each  in  his  own  way.  And,  in  so  doing,  they  have 
brought  us  a  little  nearer  to  an  understanding  of  the  beauty  of 
holiness. 


LORD  OF  MY  HEART'S  ELATION 

Lord  of  my  heart's  elation, 
Spirit  of  things  unseen, 
Be  thou  my  aspiration 
Consuming  and  serene  I 

Bear  up,  bear  out,  bear  onward, 
This  mortal  soul  alone, 
To  selfhood  or  oblivion, 
Incredibly  thine  own, — 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  307 

As  the  foamheads  are  loosened 
And  blown  along  the  sea, 
Or  sink  and  merge  forever 
In  that  which  bids  them  be. 

I,  too,  must  climb  in  wonder, 
Uplift  at  thy  command, — 
Be  one  with  my  frail  fellows 
Beneath  the  wind's  strong  hand. 

A  fleet  and  shadowy  column 
Of  dust  or  mountain  rain, 
To  walk  the  earth  a  moment 
And  be  dissolved  again. 

Be  thou  my  exaltation 
Or  fortitude  of  mien, 
Lord  of  the  world's  elation, 
Thou  breath  of  things  unseen! 

Bliss  Carman 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

I  flung  my  soul  to  the  air  like  a  falcon  flying. 
I  said,  "Wait  on,  wait  on,  while  I  ride  below! 

I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 

In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon — 
A  strange  white  heron  rising  with  silver  on  its  wings, 
Rising  and  crying 

Wordless,  wondrous  things; 

The  secret  of  the  stars,  of  the  world's  heart-strings 

The  answer  to  their  woe. 
Then  stoop  thou  upon  him,  and  grip  and  hold  him  so!'* 

My  wild  soul  waited  on  as  falcons  hover. 
I  beat  the  reedy  fens  as  I  trampled  past. 

I  heard  the  mournful  loon 

In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon. 


308  NEW  VOICES 

And  then,  with  feathery  thunder,  the  bird  of  my  desire 

Broke  from  the  cover 
Flashing  silver  fire. 
High  up  among  the  stars  I  saw  his  pinions  spire. 

The  pale  clouds  gazed  aghast 
As  my  falcon  stooped  upon  him,  and  gript  and  held  him  fast. 

My  soul  dropped  through  the  air — with  heavenly  plunder? — 
Gripping  the  dazzling  bird  my  dreaming  knew? 
Nay!  but  a  piteous  freight, 
A  dark  and  heavy  weight 
Despoiled  of  silver  plumage,  its  voice  forever  stilled, — 

All  of  the  wonder 
Gone  that  ever  filled 
Its  guise  with  glory.    O  bird  that  I  have  killed, 

How  brilliantly  you  flew 
Across  my  rapturous  vision  when  first  I  dreamed  of  you! 

Yet  I  fling  my  soul  on  high  with  new  endeavor, 
And  I  ride  the  world  below  with  a  joyful  mind. 
/  shall  start  a  heron  soon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon — 
A  wondrous  silver  heron  its  inner  darkness  fledges! 

I  beat  forever 
The  fens  and  the  sedges. 
The  pledge  is  still  the  same — for  all  disastrous  pledges, 

All  hopes  resigned! 
My  soul  still  flies  above  me  for  the  quarry  it  shall  find! 

William  Rose  Ben& 

THE  PATH  OF  THE  STARS 

Down  through  the  spheres  that  chant  the  Name  of  One 

Who  is  the  Law  of  Beauty  and  of  Light 

He  came,  and  as  He  came  the  waiting  Night 
Shook  with  the  gladness  of  a  Day  begun; 
And  as  He  came,  He  said:  Thy  Will  Be  Done 

On  Earth;  and  all  His  vibrant  Words  were  white 

And  glistering  with  silver,  and  their  might 
Was  of  the  glory  of  a  rising  sun. 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  309 

Unto  the  Stars  sang  out  His  Living  Words 
White  and  with  silver,  and  their  rhythmic  sound 

Was  as  a  mighty  symphony  unfurled; 

And  back  from  out  the  Stars  like  homing  birds 

They  fell  in  love  upon  the  sleeping  ground 

And  were  forever  in  a  wakened  world. 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 


"GOD,  YOU  HAVE  BEEN  TOO  GOOD  TO  ME" 

God,  You  have  been  too  good  to  me, 
You  don't  know  what  You've  done. 
A  clod's  too  small  to  drink  in  all 
The  treasure  of  the  sun. 

The  pitcher  Ms  the  lifted  cup 
And  still  the  blessings  pour 
They  overbrim  the  shallow  rim 
With  cool  refreshing  store. 

You  are  too  prodigal  with  joy, 
Too  careless  of  its  worth, 
To  let  the  stream  with  crystal  gleam 
Fall  wasted  on  the  earth. 

Let  many  thirsty  lips  draw  near 
And  quaff  the  greater  part! 
There  still  will  be  too  much  for  me 
To  hold  in  one  glad  heart. 

Charles  Wharton  Stark 


TWO  VOICES 

There  is  a  country  full  of  wine 
And  liquor  of  the  sun, 
Where  sap  is  running  all  the  year, 
And  spring  is  never  done, 
Where  all  is  good  as  it  is  fair, 
And  love  and  will  are  one. 


310  NEW  VOICES 

Old  age  may  never  come  there, 
But  ever  in  to-day 
The  people  talk  as  in  a  dream 
And  laugh  slow  time  away. 

But  would  you  stay  as  now  you  are, 

Or  as  a  year  ago? 

Oh,  not  as  then,  for  then  how  small 

The  wisdom  we  did  owe! 

Or  if  forever  as  to-day, 

How  little  we  could  know! 

Then  welcome  age,  and  fear  not  sorrow; 

To-day's  no  better  than  to-morrow, 

Or  yesterday  that  flies. 

By  the  low  light  in  your  eyes, 

By  the  love  that  in  me  lies, 

I  know  we  grow  more  lovely 

Growing  wise. 

Alice  Corbin 

INVOCATION 

Truth,  be  more  precious  to  me  than  the  eyes 
Of  happy  love;  burn  hotter  in  my  throat 
Than  passion,  and  possess  me  like  my  pride; 
More  sweet  than  freedom,  more  desired  than  joy, 
More  sacred  than  the  pleasing  of  a  friend. 

Max  Eastman 

TREES 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 
Against  the  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day, 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY          311 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree. 

Joyce  Kilmer 

GOOD  COMPANY 

To-day  I  have  grown  taller  from  walking  with  the  trees, 
The  seven  sister-poplars  who  go  softly  in  a  line; 
And  I  think  my  heart  is  whiter  for  its  parley  with  a  star 
That  trembled  out  at  nightfall  and  hung  above  the  pine. 
The  call-note  of  a  redbird  from  the  cedars  in  the  dusk 
Woke  his  happy  mate  within  me  to  an  answer  free  and  fine; 
And  a  sudden  angel  beckoned  from  a  column  of  blue  smoke — 
Lord,  who  am  I  that  they  should  stoop — these  holy  folk  of  thine? 

Karle  Wilson  Baker 


TWO  NARRATIVES  FROM  "FRUIT-GATHERING" 


"Sire,"  announced  the  servant  to  the  King,  "the  saint  Narottam 
has  never  deigned  to  enter  your  royal  temple. 

"He  is  singing  God's  praise  under  the  trees  by  the  open  road.  The 
temple  is  empty  of  worshippers. 

"They  flock  round  him  like  bees  round  the  white  lotus,  leaving  the 
golden  jar  of  honey  unheeded." 

The  King,  vexed  at  heart,  went  to  the  spot  where  Narottam  sat 
on  the  grass. 

He  asked  him,  "Father,  why  leave  my  temple  of  the  golden  dome 
and  sit  on  the  dust  outside  to  preach  God's  love?  " 

"Because  God  is  not  there  in  your  temple,"  said  Narottam. 

The  King  frowned  and  said,  "Do  you  know,  twenty  millions  of 
gold  went  to  the  making  of  that  marvel  of  art,  and  it  was  consecrated 
to  God  with  costly  rites?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  answered  Narottam.  "It  was  in  that  year  when 
thousands  of  your  people  whose  houses  had  been  burned  stood  vainly 
asking  for  help  at  your  door. 


312  NEW  VOICES 

"And  God  said,  'The  poor  creature  who  can  give  no  shelter  to  his 
brothers  would  build  my  house!' 

"And  he  took  his  place  with  the  shelterless  under  the  trees  by  the 
road. 

"And  that  golden  bubble  is  empty  of  all  but  hot  vapour  of  pride." 

The  King  cried  in  anger,  "Leave  my  land." 

Calmly  said  the  saint,  "Yes,  banish  me  where  you  have  banished 
my  God." 

n 

Sudas,  the  gardener,  plucked  from  his  tank  the  last  lotus  left  by 
the  ravage  of  winter  and  went  to  sell  it  to  the  king  at  the  palace  gate. 

There  he  met  a  traveller  who  said  to  him,  "Ask  your  price  for  the 
last  lotus, — I  shall  offer  it  to  Lord  Buddha." 

Sudas  said,  "If  you  pay  one  golden  masha  it  will  be  yours." 

The  traveller  paid  it. 

.  At  that  moment  the  king  came  out  and  he  wished  to  buy  the  flower, 
for  he  was  on  his  way  to  see  Lord  Buddha,  and  he  thought,  "It  would 
be  a  fine  thing  to  lay  at  his  feet  the  lotus  that  bloomed  hi  winter." 

When  the  gardener  said  he  had  been  offered  a  golden  niastia  the 
king  offered  him  ten,  but  the  traveller  doubled  the  price. 

The  gardener,  being  greedy,  imagined  a  greater  gain  from  him  for 
whose  sake  they  were  biddng.  He  bowed  and  said,  "I  cannot  sell 
this  lotus." 

In  the  hushed  shade  of  the  mango  grove  beyond  the  city  wall  Sudas 
stood  before  Lord  Buddha,  on  whose  lips  sat  the  silence  of  love  and 
whose  eyes  beamed  peace  like  the  morning  star  of  the  dew-washed 
autumn. 

Sudas  looked  in  his  face  and  put  the  lotus  at  his  feet  and  bowed 
his  head  to  the  dust. 

Buddha  smiled  and  asked,  "What  is  your  wish,  my  son?" 

Sudas  cried,  "The  least  touch  of  your  feet." 

Rabindranath  Tagore 

THE  BIRTH* 

There  is  a  legend  that  the  love  of  God 
So  quickened  under  Mary's  heart  it  wrought 
Her  very  maidenhood  to  holier  stuff.  .  .  . 
However  that  may  be,  the  birth  befell 

*  Copyright,  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY          313 

Upon  a  night  when  all  the  Syrian  stars 

Swayed  tremulous  before  one  lordlier  orb 

That  rose  hi  gradual  splendor, 

Paused, 

Flooding  the  firmament  with  mystic  light, 

And  dropped  upon  the  breathing  hills 

A  sudden  music 

Like  a  distillation  from  its  gleams; 

A  rain  of  spirit  and  a  dew  of  song! 

Don  Marquis 

A  CHRISTMAS  FOLK-SONG 

The  Little  Jesus  came  to  town; 
The  wind  blew  up,  the  wind  blew  down; 
Out  in  the  street  the  wind  was  bold; 
Now  who  would  house  Him  from  the  cold? 

Then  opened  wide  a  stable  door, 
Fair  were  the  rushes  on  the  floor; 
The  Ox  put  forth  a  horned  head; 
"Come,  little  Lord,  here  make  Thy  bed." 

Uprose  the  Sheep  were  folded  near; 
"Thou  Lamb  of  God,  come,  enter  here." 
He  entered  there  to  rush  and  reed, 
Who  was  the  Lamb  of  God  indeed. 

The  little  Jesus  came  to  town; 
With  ox  and  sheep  He  laid  Him  down; 
Peace  to  the  byre,  peace  to  the  fold, 
For  that  they  housed  Him  from  the  cold! 

Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 


THE  VIGIL  OF  JOSEPH 

After  the  Wise  Men  went,  and  the  strange  star 

Had  faded  out,  Joseph  the  father  sat 

Watching  the  sleeping  Mother  and  the  Babe, 

And  thinking  stern,  sweet  thoughts  the  long  night  through. 


3 14  NEW  VOICES 

"Ah,  what  am  I,  that  God  has  chosen  me 
To  bear  this  blessed  burden,  to  endure 
Daily  the  presence  of  this  loveliness, 
To  guide  this  Glory  that  shall  guide  the  world? 

"Brawny  these  arms  to  win  Him  bread,  and  broad 
This  bosom  to  sustain  Her.    But  my  heart 
Quivers  in  lonely  pain  before  that  Beauty 
It  loves — and  serves — and  cannot  understand!" 

Elsa  Barker 

CHILD 

The  young  child,  Christ,  is  straight  and  wise 

And  asks  questions  of  the  old  men,  questions 

Found  under  running  water  for  all  children, 

And  found  under  shadows  thrown  on  still  waters 

By  tall  trees  looking  downward,  old  and  gnarled, 

Found  to  the  eyes  of  children  alone,  untold, 

Singing  a  low  song  in  the  loneliness. 

And  the  young  child,  Christ,  goes  on  asking 

And  the  old  men  answer  nothing  and  only  know  love 

For  the  young  child,  Christ,  straight  and  wise. 

Carl  Sandburg 

COMRADE  JESUS 

Thanks  to  Saint  Matthew,  who  had  been 
At  mass-meetings  in  Palestine, 
We  know  whose  side  was  spoken  for 
When  Comrade  Jesus  had  the  floor. 

"Where  sore  they  toil  and  hard  they  lie, 
Among  the  great  unwashed,  dwell  I; — 
The  tramp,  the  convict,  I  am  he; 
Cold-shoulder  him,  cold-shoulder  me." 

By  Dives'  door,  with  thoughtful  eye, 
He  did  to-morrow  prophesy: — 
"The  kingdom's  gate  is  low  and  small; 
The  rich  can  scarce  wedge  through  at  all." 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  315 

"A  dangerous  man,"  said  Caiaphas, 
"An  ignorant  demagogue,  alas! 
Friend  of  low  women,  it  is  he 
Slanders  the  upright  Pharisee." 

For  law  and  order,  it  was  plain, 
For  Holy  Church,  he  must  be  slain. 
The  troops  were  there  to  awe  the  crowd: 
And  violence  was  not  allowed. 

Their  clumsy  force  with  force  to  foil 
His  strong,  clean  hands  we  would  not  soil. 
He  saw  their  childishness  quite  plain 
Between  the  lightnings  of  his  pain. 

Between  the  twilights  of  his  end, 
He  made  his  fellow-felon  friend: 
With  swollen  tongue  and  blinded  eyes, 
Invited  him  to  Paradise. 

Ah,  let  no  Local  him  refuse! 
Comrade  Jesus  hath  paid  his  dues. 
Whatever  other  be  debarred, 
Comrade  Jesus  hath  his  red  card. 

Sarah  N.  Cleghorn 


AN  UNBELIEVER 

All  these  on  whom  the  sacred  seal  was  set, 
They  could  forsake  thee  while  thine  eyes  were  wet. 
Brother,  not  once  have  I  believed  hi  thee, 
Yet  having  seen  I  cannot  once  forget. 

I  have  looked  long  into  those  friendly  eyes, 
And  found  thee  dreaming,  fragile  and  unwise. 
Brother,  not  once  have  I  believed  in  thee, 
Yet  have  I  loved  thee  for  thy  gracious  lies. 

One  broke  thee  with  a  kiss  at  eventide, 

And  he  that  loved  thee  well  has  thrice  denied. 

Brother,  I  have  no  faith  in  thee  at  all, 

Yet  must  I  seek  thy  hands,  thy  feet,  thy  side. 


316  NEW  VOICES 

Behold  that  John  that  leaned  upon  thy  breast; 
His  eyes  grew  heavy  and  he  needs  must  rest. 
I  watched  unseen  through  dark  Gethsemane 
And  might  not  slumber,  for  I  loved  thee  best. 

Peace  thou  wilt  give  to  them  of  troubled  mind, 

Bread  to  the  hungry,  spittle  to  the  blind. 

My  heart  is  broken  for  my  unbelief, 

But  that  thou  canst  not  heal,  though  thou  art  kind. 

They  asked  one  day  to  sit  beside  thy  throne. 
I  made  one  prayer,  in  silence  and  alone. 
Brother,  thou  knowest  my  unbelief  in  thee. 
Bear  not  my  sins,  for  thou  must  bear  thine  own. 

Even  he  that  grieves  thee  most  "Lord,  Lord,"  he  saith, 
So  will  I  call  on  thee  with  my  last  breath! 
Brother,  not  once  have  I  believed  in  thee. 
Yet  I  am  wounded  for  thee  unto  death. 

Anna  Hemp  stead  Branch 


THE  JEW  TO  JESUS 

0  Man  of  my  own  people,  I  alone 
Among  these  alien  ones  can  know  thy  face, 

1  who  have  felt  the  kinship  of  our  race 
Burn  in  me  as  I  sit  where  they  intone 

Thy  praises, — those  who,  striving  to  make  known 
A  God  for  sacrifice,  have  missed  the  grace 
Of  thy  sweet  human  meaning  in  its  place, 
Thou  who  art  of  our  blood-bond  and  our  own. 

Are  we  not  sharers  of  thy  Passion?    Yea, 

In  spirit-anguish  closely  by  thy  side 

We  have  drained  the  bitter  cup,  and,  tortured,  felt 

With  thee  the  bruising  of  each  heavy  welt. 

In  every  land  is  our  Gethsemane. 

A  thousand  times  have  we  been  crucified. 

Florence  Kiper  Frank 


RELIGION  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  317 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  CROSS 

Melchior,  Caspar,  Balthazar, 

Great  gifts  they  bore  and  meet; 
White  linen  for  His  body  fair 

And  purple  for  His  feet; 
And  golden  things — the  joy  of  kings — 

And  myrrh  to  breathe  Him  sweet. 

It  was  the  shepherd  Terish  spake, 

"Oh,  poor  the  gift  I  bring — 
A  little  cross  of  broken  twigs, 

A  hind's  gift  to  a  king — 
Yet,  haply,  He  may  smile  to  see 

And  know  my  offering." 

And  it  was  Mary  held  her  Son 

Full  softly  to  her  breast, 
"Great  gifts  and  sweet  are  at  Thy  feet 

And  wonders  king-possessed, 
O  little  Son,  take  Thou  the  one 

That  pleasures  Thee  the  best.'* 

It  was  the  Christ-Child  in  her  arms 

Who  turned  from  gaud  and  gold, 
Who  turned  from  wondrous  gifts  and  great, 

From  purple  woof  and  fold, 
And  to  His  breast  the  cross  He  pressed 

That  scarce  His  hands  could  hold. 

'Twas  king  and  shepherd  went  their  way — 

Great  wonder  tore  their  bliss; 
'Twas  Mary  clasped  her  little  Son 

Close,  close  to  feel  her  kiss, 
And  in  His  hold  the  cross  lay  cold 

Between  her  heart  and  His! 

Theodosia  Garrison 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY 

In  the  past  decade  the  stimulating  themes  of  democracy, 
industrial  civilization  and  the  great  war  have  engaged  the  at- 
tention of  the  poets.  But  the  ancient  and  everlasting  themes 
of  human  life  have  never  been  forgotten.  While  we  have  love 
and  birth  and  death,  poets  will  sing  of  them.  While  we  have 
changing  seasons  and  streams  clamorous  with  the  white  danger 
of  rapids,  woods  blessed  by  early  hepaticas  or  late  asters,  poets 
will  go  back  to  the  open  world  for  refuge  and  for  inspiration. 
The  joy  and  solace  of  that  open  world  will  be  echoed  in  their 
poems. 

Probably  the  poets  of  to-day  have  written  as  many  poems  of 
nature  as  were  ever  written  in  any  period.  Even  poets  who  can 
seldom  summon  sufficient  vigor  of  spirit  to  write  acceptably 
of  anything  else  can  make  a  few  acceptable  poems  about  the 
beauty  of  the  natural  world.  It  is  the  only  world  that  our  fore- 
fathers knew  in  the  days  before  there  were  cities.  It  is  the  world 
to  which  the  psyche  of  mankind  has  been  attuned  by  time. 

But  we  shall  find  the  new  spirit  of  new  days  even  in  the  poems 
of  nature.  Poets  of  to-day  do  not  write  of  the  out  of  doors  as 
their  ancestors  wrote  of  it.  No  contemporary  poet  of  the  first 
rank  would  be  likely  to  write  lines  like  the  famous  ones  of  Words- 
worth: 

"One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 

May  teach  you  more  of  man 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good 
Than  all  the  sages  can." 

He  could  not  write  in  this  way  because  he  would  not  be  likely 
to  think  and  feel  in  this  way.  Certainly  nature  is  good  for  us. 
Air  is  good  to  breathe  and  water  is  good  to  drink  and  the  natural 
beauty  of  the  out  of  doors  is  like  the  breath  of  life  and  the  water 

318 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     319 

of  life  to  the  human  spirit.  But  the  poet  of  to-day  does  not  think 
about  nature  as  something  external  to  himself,  which  may 
possibly  have  a  beneficial  effect  on  his  behavior  if  taken  in 
judicious  doses. 

The  poet  of  to-day  seems  to  think  of  nature  as  of  a  matrix  V 
in  which  he  himself  is  formed.  Man  is  simply  a  part  of  nature, 
the  summit  achieved  by  countless  climbing  cells  of  protoplasm, 
that  have  perpetuated  themselves  in  grass  and  coral,  frog,  fish, 
and  feathered  eagle,  from  generation  to  generation.  All  this 
is  said  far  better  than  prose  can  say  it  in  John  Hall  Wheelock's 
"Earth,"  which  begins  with  the  lines: 

"Grasshopper,  your  fairy  song 

And  my  poem  alike  belong 

To  the  dark  and  silent  earth 

From  which  all  poetry  has  birth; 

All  we  say  and  all  we  sing 

Is  but  as  the  murmuring 

Of  that  drowsy  heart  of  hers 

When  from  her  deep  dream  she  stirs: 

If  we  sorrow,  or  rejoice, 

You  and  I  are  but  her  voice. 

"  Deftly  does  the  dust  express 
In  mind  her  hidden  loveliness, 
And  from  her  cool  silence  stream 
The  cricket's  cry  and  Dante's  dream: 
For  the  earth  that  breeds  the  trees 
Breeds  cities  too,  and  symphonies 
Equally  her  beauty  flows 
Into  a  savior  or  a  rose." 

The  same  thought  is  reiterated  in  "April  Rain"  by  Conrad 
Aiken,  a  poem  conceived  in  the  thought  of  man's  oneness  with 
the  earth,  and  on  the  interchanging  of  dust  and  dust. 

"Fall,  rain!    Into  the  dust  I  go  with  you, 
Pierce  the  remaining  snows  with  subtle  fire, 
Warming  the  frozen  roots  with  soft  desire, 
Dreams  of  ascending  leaves  and  flowers  new. 


320  NEW  VOICES 

"  I  am  no  longer  body, — I  am  blood 
Seeking  for  some  new  loveliness  of  shape; 
Dark  loveliness  that  dreams  of  new  escape, 
The  sun-surrender  of  unclosing  bud." 

Thomas  Hardy  gives  expression  to  the  same  idea  with  greater 
austerity,  and  more  nobly,  in  his  admirable  poems,  "Transforma- 
tions" and  "The  Wind  Blew  Words." 

To  be  sure  it  is  no  new  thing  in  the  world  of  thought  that  man 
should  call  the  Earth  his  mother.  Very  primitive  poets  did  that 
in  the  age  of  bronze,  in  the  age  of  stone,  doubtless.  Later  poets 
made  a  literary  convention  of  the  idea.  But  to-day  it  is  more 
than  a  convention.  It  is  truth  that  we  can  feel  and  understand 
better  than  poets  of  yesterday  felt  it  and  understood  it.  Science 
has  taught  us  something  of  our  kinship  with  the  earth.  In  the 
best  modern  poems  of  nature  a  new  intimacy  with  the  earth  is 
expressed.  Nowadays  poets  do  not  condescend  to  nature. 
They  do  not  say,  in  effect  "  Oh  yes,  the  Earth  is  our  mother, 
but — "  They  do  not  speak  of  nature  with  reservations,  as  ex- 
clusive people  speak  of  poor  relations.  They  are  of  one  substance 
with  nature.  They  know  it  and  are  content,  even  glad.  And 
most  of  the  modern  poets  who  have  given  us  authentic  poems  of 
nature  and  the  fecund  earth  have  shared  the  high  mood  of 
William  Watson's  admirable  "Ode  In  May,"  have  thought  what 
he  thought  when  he  said, 

"  Magnificent  out  of  the  dust  we  came, 
And  abject  from  the  spheres." 

Nowadays  we  rejoice  the  more  in  the  thought  of  simple, 
natural  things,  earth,  grass,  sun,  rain,  wind,  and  in  the  thought 
of  our  kinship  with  them,  because  life  often  carries  us  away  from 
them  all.  For  the  modern,  a  return  to  these  things  of  the  out 
of  doors,  either  in  reality,  or  in  poetry — the  other  reality — is 
relaxation  and  recreation  and  refuge  from  sophistication  and 
unrest.  In  spite  of  starch  and  shoe  polish,  aeroplanes  and 
printing  presses,  the  primitive  man  still  lives  in  us.  We  are  his 
heirs.  Sometimes  he  cries  aloud  in  us  for  the  sea  or  the  hills, 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  32 1 

for  the  scent  of  pine-needles,  for  a  draught  of  water  from  a 
spring  that  has  never  been  walled  in.  When  this  happens  we 
return  gladly,  in  body  and  in  actuality,  or  in  spirit  and  in  poetry, 
to  claim  our  kinship  with  the  kind  Earth  and  to  be  soothed  by 
the  maternal  forces  of  her  life. 

Man's  intimacy  with  nature  is  told  in  many  modern  poems. 
It  is  even  a  part  of  the  melody  of  Robert  Frost's  lyric,  "The 
Sound  of  The  Trees."  The  rhythm  of  moving  trees  is  in  the 
words.  It  is  the  very  tune  of  the  trees,  at  once  irregular  and 
stately.  This  is  a  proof  that  the  poem  was  profoundly  felt  be- 
fore it  was  written.  It  could  hardly  have  been  made  by  the 
self-conscious  intellect,  the  practical  intellect  that  deals  com- 
petently enough  with  the  surfaces  of  things.  For  in  the  simplest 
and  most  impressive  language,  Mr.  Frost  reveals  the  very  nature 
of  trees  in  what  he  says  about  himself  and  reveals  his  own  mood 
in  what  he  says  about  the  trees.  To  have  written  such  sincere 
poetry  is  to  have  taken  one  little  step  in  time  to  the  grand  march 
of  the  universe.  It  is  to  have  been  a  participant  in  the  never- 
ending  pageant  of  the  natural  world  and  to  have  shared  the  ex- 
perience of  participation  with  others. 

This  fact,  that  the  modern  poet  desires  to  share  an  experience 
in  his  poetry,  is  responsible  for  his  way  of  telling  what  he  knows 
about  the  natural  world.  Although  he  is  both  truthful  and  ac- 
curate in  his  own  way,  his  method  is  impressionistic  rather  than 
photographic.  He  does  not  describe  in  detail.  He  presents  in 
essence.  And  he  is  always  personal.  His  own  emotion  quickens 
his  readers.  It  is  what  makes  his  poems  strong  to  reach  into 
other  people's  minds  and  hearts.  We  might  read  two  or  three 
pages  of  good  description  of  a  cherry  tree,  pages  composed  with 
pains  and  aiming  to  tell  just  what  a  cherry  tree  is  like,  and  yet 
remain  untouched.  It  is  well  nigh  impossible  to  read  the  famous 
little  lyric  about  the  cherry  tree,  by  A.  E.  Housman,  dispassion- 
ately. After  two  or  three  readings  it  is  well  nigh  impossible  to 
forget  it.  That  little  poem  tells  us  something  about  the  cherry 
tree  that  we  have  felt  ourselves.  But  Mr.  Housman  has  felt 
it  more  keenly  and  expressed  it  better  than  we  could  express  it. 


322  NEW  VOICES 

"Loveliest  of  trees,  the  cherry  now 
Is  hung  with  bloom  along  the  bough 
And  stands  about  the  woodland  ride 
Wearing  white  for  Eastertide." 

That  is  all  that  is  said  in  description  of  the  cherry  tree.  The 
other  lines  of  the  poem  are  lyrical,  personal,  naive.  The  beauty 
in  them  can  belong  to  anyone  who  will  take  them  upon  his  own 
lips  and  into  his  own  mind.  It  is,  moreover,  a  beauty  so  simple 
that  it  defies  analysis.  It  is  difficult  for  a  critic  to  tell  of  what 
elements  it  is  composed. 

A  similar  naivete  is  a  part  of  the  charming  quality  of  many 
of  William  H.  Davies '  lyrics  of  nature.  Mr.  Davies  does  more 
than  express  his  own  love  of  the  beautiful  things  out  of  doors. 
He  is  conscious  of  a  reciprocity  in  friendliness  and  tells  his 
readers  about  it.  He  is  "  Nature's  Friend." 

"  Say  what  you  like, 

All  things  love  me! 
Horse,  Cow,  and  Mouse 

Bird,  Moth  and  Bee." 

He  has  something  of  a  child's  capacity  for  anticipation.  In 
that  lovable  lyric,  "The  Rain,"  he  says, 

"I  hope  the  sun  shines  bright; 
'Twill  be  a  lovely  sight." 

and  in  "Leisure"  he  asks  innocently, 

"What  is  this  life  if,  full  of  care, 
We  have  no  time  to  stand  and  stare. 

"  No  time  to  stand  beneath  the  boughs 
And  stare  as  long  as  sheep  and  cows." 

The  effervescent  gayety  of  many  of  his  short  lyrics  is  like  the 
perennially  renewed  youth  of  the  out  of  doors. 

The  English  and  the  Irish  seem  to  have  domesticated  nature, 
if  we  can  judge  by  much  of  their  poetry  about  it.  Mr.  Davies 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  323 

is  only  one  of  many  English  poets  who  sing  of  a  nature  in  which 
cows  and  horses  and  mice  have  a  place,  a  nature  of  rose- 
bushes and  trimmed  hedges.  It  is  the  cultivated  nature  of 
lanes  and  gardens  that  Edward  Thomas  knows  and  of  which 
he  tells  us  in  a  number  of  delightful,  whimsical  poems.  The 
following  lines  are  typical  of  his  quiet  genius. 

"If  I  should  ever  by  chance  grow  rich 

I'll  buy  Codham,  Cockridden  and  Childerditch, 

Roses,  Pyrgo,  and  Lapwater, 

And  let  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 

The  rent  I  shall  ask  of  her  will  be  only 

Each  year's  first  violets,  white  and  lonely, 

The  first  primroses  and  orchises — 

She  must  find  them  before  I  do,  that  is." 

Padraic  Colum,  the  Irish  poet,  who  has  lived  for  several 
years  in  the  United  States,  has  written  a  number  of  beautiful 
poems  of  domesticated  nature  which  he  has  put  into  a  book 
called  "  Wild  Earth  And  Other  Poems."  The  first  thought  that 
comes  into  the  mind  of  an  American  who  turns  the  pages  of  it 
is  that  Mr.  Colum's  "wild  earth"  is  not  very  "wild."  In  a 
certain  sense,  perhaps,  the  earth  is  always  wild  and  always  will 
be.  But  Mr.  Colum's  poetry  is  about  earth  that  knows  the 
plough,  earth  on  which  homes  have  been  built.  The  first  poem 
in  the  book  is  called  "The  Plougher,"  and  the  second  "The 
Furrow  And  The  Hearth."  To  the  children  of  pioneers  who  cut 
logs  in  the  wilderness  and  broke  the  soil  of  a  continent  for  the 
first  time  with  the  plough,  the  word  "wild"  has  another  mean- 
ing. 

But  Mr.  Colum's  poetry  is  beautiful  and  dignified.  It  is 
fraught  with  racial  emotion.  It  is  homely  and  strong.  It  is 
concerned  with  nature,  to  be  sure,  but  with  nature  subdued 
to  meet  the  needs  of  man. 

"  Stride  the  hill,  sower, 
Up  to  the  sky-ridge, 
Flinging  the  seed, 
Scattering,  exultant! 


324  NEW  VOICES 

Mouthing  great  rhythms 
To  the  long  sea  beats 
On  the  wide  shore,  behind 
The  ridge  of  the  hillside." 

In  sharp  contrast  with  poetry  of  this  kind  is  such  a  lyric  as 
"In  The  Mohave"  by  Patrick  Orr,  a  poem  about  the  Mohave 
Desert.  Mr.  Orr's  poem,  like  the  poems  of  Mr.  Housman,  Mr. 
Thomas,  and  Mr.  Colum,  is  lyrical  and  impressionistic.  It  is  the 
sharing  of  an  experience.  But  because  the  experience  is  not 
gay  or  gentle,  but  poignant  and  cruel,  the  poem  in  which  it  is 
shared  is  astringent  and  of  a  sharp  flavor.  It  is  a  poem  of  wild 
nature. 

"As  I  went  down  the  arroyo  through  yuccas  belled  with  bloom 
I  saw  a  last  year's  stalk  lift  dried  hands  to  the  light, 

Like  age  at  prayer  for  death  within  a  careless  room, 
Like  one  by  day  o'er  taken  whose  sick  desire  is  night." 

Mr.  Orr  saw  that  in  the  desert.  Anyone  can  see  it  there.  When 
he  apostrophizes  the  desert,  however,  he  reveals  what  he  him- 
self felt,  and  gives  permanent  form  to  it. 

"O  cruel  land,  where  form  endures,  the  spirit  fled." 

The  emotional  reaction  which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  utter 
that  line  is  the  suggestive  force  in  each  of  his  lines  of  description. 
It  is  what  gives  vitality  to  his  portrayal  of  the  brilliance  and 
cruelty  of  the  desert. 

A  day  may  come  when  it  will  no  longer  be  possible  to  write 
poems  about  wild  nature,  because  nature  will  no  longer  be 
wild  anywhere  in  the  world.  A  day  may  come  when  so  many 
people  will  live  in  so  many  places  now  uninhabited  that  all  of 
the  natural  world  will  be  domesticated.  Probably  poets  will 
never  again  have  a  better  chance  than  they  have  to-day  to 
share  their  experiences  in  the  wild,  open  world.  Lovers  of  poetry 
can  not  help  wishing  that  the  poets  may  get  the  best  things  of 
the  great  out  of  doors  made  into  poetry  before  they  are  made 
into  picture  postal  cards,  before  the  sides  of  the  trails  that  go  to 


GEORGE    STERLING 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     325 

find  them  are  placarded  with  advertisements.  In  America  we 
have  more  kinds  of  natural  beauty  than  any  one  poet  can  find 
time  to  enjoy  in  all  his  life.  What  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  if  a 
few  of  our  overheated  young  radicals  and  tepid  conservatives 
could  be  put  into  communication  with  this  natural  beauty  and 
helped  to  express  it  with  warm  natural  affection! 

George  Sterling,  the  master-singer  of  California,  is  a  poet 
who  has  made  very  beautiful  lyrics  of  nature.  His  pictures  in 
verse  have  the  magic  of  the  suggested  mood.  He  is  not  direct 
and  nai've.  He  says  very  little  about  his  personal  feelings.  But 
he  shares  them.  He  is  communicative  in  a  subtle  way,  shyly, 
and  with  reserves.  "The  Last  Days,"  a  poem  of  autumn  in 
Northern  California,  is  a  bit  of  wizardry  as  an  interpretation 
of  the  season  and  of  what  it  has  meant  to  Mr.  Sterling  and  might 
mean  to  anyone  else.  The  sober  rhythm  and  the  sober  phrasing 
contribute  not  a  little  to  the  wistful  loveliness  of  this  song  of 
evanescence  and  change. 

"The  bracken-rust  is  red  on  the  hill; 

The  pines  stand  brooding  sombre  and  still; 

Gray  are  the  cliffs  and  the  waters  gray, 

Where  the  sea-gulls  dip  to  the  sea-born  spray. 

Sad  November,  lady  of  rain, 

Sends  the  goose-wedge  over  again. 


"  Days  departing  linger  and  sigh: 
Stars  come  soon  to  the  quiet  sky; 
Buried  voices,  intimate,  strange, 
Cry  to  body  and  soul  of  change; 
Beauty,  eternal  fugitive, 
Seeks  the  home  that  we  can  not  give." 

Another  good  poem  of  the  far  West  is  "On  The  Great  Pla- 
teau," by  Edith  Wyatt.  It  is  panoramic,  and  its  chief  merit  is 
that  it  tells  the  secret  of  the  love  of  Westerners  for  the  West, 
without  saying  anything  about  it.  It  is  a  secret  of  great  spaces 
and  tremendous  sizes,  of  the  highest  mountains,  the  deepest 


326  NEW  VOICES 

canyons,  the  tallest  trees  and  the  trees  of  greatest  girth.  When 
one  has  lived  in  the  far  West  for  a  number  of  years  a  return  to  the 
smaller  and  more  lovable  landscapes  of  the  East  is  like  leaving 
a  big  park  for  a  Japanese  miniature  garden. 

"In  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  far  away  and  far  away, 
Cool-breathed  waters  dip  and  dally,  linger  towards  another  day — 
Far  and  far  away — far  away." 

A  poem  of  quite  another  kind  is  "The  Morning  Song  of 
Senlin"  taken  from  a  longer  poem,  "Senlin:  A  Biography"  by 
Conrad  Aiken.  It  is  a  lyric  that  sets  the  immensity  and  grandeur 
of  nature  side  by  side  with  our  little  deeds  of  every  day,  in 
sharp  contrast.  It  is  very  spontaneous  and  original.  The  dew 
of  surprise  is  still  fresh  on  it.  Everybody  who  is  sensitive  to 
contrasts  between  great  things  and  small,  who  is  capable  of 
wonder  in  the  thought  of  rising  in  the  morning  to  a  new  day  in 
an  ancient  and  everlasting  universe,  and  of  setting  beside  the 
glory  of  that  new  day  the  least  and  most  trivial  of  occupations, 
has  felt  what  is  said  in  this  poem.  But  nobody  else  has  put  just 
this  thing  into  poetry  of  this  kind.  "The  Morning  Song  of 
Senlin"  is  a  poem  for  imaginative  people.  Practical  people  may 
stumble  over  this  juxtaposition  of  great  things  and  small  in  it. 
They  are  accustomed  to  having  poets  tell  them  that  grandeur 
and  immensity  are  near  at  hand.  But  they  are  not  accustomed 
to  having  the  idea  put  into  poetry  in  the  words  of  a  man  who  is 
only  standing  before  a  mirror  and  tying  his  necktie.  They 
prefer  to  think  that  the  person  who  speaks  of  grandeur  is  perched 
upon  a  remote  and  chilly  hill-top  with  nothing  to  occupy  him 
but  contemplation,  or  that  he  paces  some  romantic  stage  with 
his  eyes  rolling  in  fine  frenzy  as  he  talks.  They  are  tempted  to 
forget  that,  for  nearly  everybody,  the  perception  of  beauty  would 
be  impossible  if  it  had  to  be  made  into  a  vocation. 

Mr.  Aiken's  poem  is  brave  with  the  elation  of  the  morning 
and  it  is  written  with  enough  restraint  to  save  it  from  any  real 
and  damaging  incongruities.  Moreover,  Mr.  Aiken  is  a  master  of 
rhythm,  and  the  cool  lyrical  movement  of  the  lines  of  this  poem 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     327 

combines  in  a  subtle  and  delicate  way  the  qualities  of  speech  and 
song.    The  following  lines  are  especially  charming: 

"The  earth  revolves  with  me,  yet  makes  no  motion, 
The  stars  pale  silently  in  the  coral  sky. 
In  a  whistling  void  I  stand  before  my  mirror, 
Unconcerned,  and  tie  my  tie. 

"  There  are  horses  neighing  on  far-off  hills, 
Tossing  their  long  white  manes, 
And  mountains  flash  in  the  rose-white  dusk, 
Their  shoulders  black  with  rams  .  .  . 
It  is  morning.    I  stand  by  the  mirror 
And  surprise  my  soul  once  more; 
The  blue  air  rushes  above  my  ceiling, 
There  are  suns  beneath  my  floor  ..." 

What  has  been  said  of  the  themes  of  nature  and  the  open 
world  as  they  are  used  in  contemporary  poetry  does  not  tell  the 
whole  story.  The  discussion  would  have  to  be  very  long  to  be 
complete.  It  would  be  necessary  to  tell  something  of  the  fine, 
uproarious  poetry  of  the  sea  and  of  the  sonorous,  colorful  poetry 
of  the  sea  that  John  Masefield  has  written.  It  would  be  neces- 
sary to  tell  something  of  the  fragrant  charm  of  many  of  the  poems 
about  gardens  that  modern  poets  have  made.  It  would  be  neces- 
sary to  mention  poems  in  which  nature  has  stimulated  the  poet 
by  suggesting  odd,  delectable  magic  of  fancy,  like  Harold  Mon- 
ro's  "Overheard  In  A  Saltmarsh."  But  that  can  not  be  done  in 
an  introduction.  An  introduction  is  only  the  beginning  of  a 
adventure  in  acquaintance.  Perhaps  enough  has  been  said  to 
show  that  those  who  are  old  friends  of  the  open  world  and  lovers 
of  their  mother,  Earth,  will  find  their  filial  friendship  and  their 
devotion  adequately  commemorated  in  the  poetry  of  to-day. 


328  NEW  VOICES 


EARTH 

Grasshopper,  your  fairy  song 

And  my  poem  alike  belong 

To  the  dark  and  silent  earth 

From  which  all  poetry  has  birth; 

All  we  say  and  all  we  sing 

Is  but  as  the  murmuring 

Of  that  drowsy  heart  of  hers 

When  from  her  deep  dream  she  stirs: 

If  we  sorrow,  or  rejoice, 

You  and  I  are  but  her  voice. 

Deftly  does  the  dust  express 
In  mind  her  hidden  loveliness, 
And  from  her  cool  silence  stream 
The  cricket's  cry  and  Dante's  dream: 
For  the  earth  that  breeds  the  trees 
Breeds  cities  too,  and  symphonies, 
Equally  her  beauty  flows 
Into  a  savior,  or  a  rose — 
Looks  down  in  dream,  and  from  above 
Smiles  at  herself  in  Jesus'  love. 
Christ's  love  and  Homer's  art 
Are  but  the  workings  of  her  heart; 
Through  Leonardo's  hand  she  seeks 
Herself,  and  through  Beethoven  speaks 
In  holy  thunderings  around 
The  awful  message  of  the  ground. 

The  serene  and  humble  mould 
Does  in  herself  all  selves  enfold — 
Kingdoms,  destinies,  and  creeds, 
Great  dreams  and  dauntless  deeds, 
Science  that  metes  the  firmament, 
The  high,  inflexible  intent 
Of  one  for  many  sacrificed — 
Plato's  brain,  the  heart  of  Christ: 
All  love,  all  legend,  and  all  lore 
Are  in  the  dust  forevermore. 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     329 

Even  as  the  growing  grass 
Up  from  the  soil  religions  pass, 
And  the  field  that  bears  the  rye 
Bears  parables  and  prophecy. 
Out  of  the  earth  the  poem  grows 
Like  the  lily,  or  the  rose; 
And  all  man  is,  or  yet  may  be, 
Is  but  herself  in  agony 
Toiling  up  the  steep  ascent 
Toward  the  complete  accomplishment 
When  all  dust  shall  be,  the  whole 
Universe,  one  conscious  soul. 

Yea,  the  quiet  and  cool  sod 
Bears  in  her  breast  the  dream  of  God. 
If  you  would  know  what  earth  is,  scan 
The  intricate,  proud  heart  of  man, 
Which  is  the  earth  articulate, 
And  learn  how  holy  and  how  great, 
How  limitless  and  how  profound 
Is  the  nature  of  the  ground — 
How  without  terror  or  demur 
We  may  entrust  ourselves  to  her 
When  we  are  wearied  out,  and  lay 
Our  faces  in  the  common  clay. 

For  she  is  pity,  she  is  love, 

All  wisdom  she,  all  thoughts  that  move 

About  her  everlasting  breast 

Till  she  gathers  them  to  rest: 

All  tenderness  of  all  the  ages, 

Seraphic  secrets  of  the  sages, 

All  prayer,  all  anguish,  and  all  tears 

Are  but  the  dust,  that  from  her  dream 

Awakes,  and  knows  herself  supreme — 

Are  but  earth  when  she  reveals 

All  that  her  secret  heart  conceals 

Down  in  the  dark  and  silent  loam, 

Which  is  ourselves  asleep,  at  home. 


330  NEW  VOICES 


Yea,  and  this  my  poem,  too, 
Is  part  of  her  as  dust  and  dew, 
Wherein  herself  she  doth  declare 
Through  my  lips,  and  say  her  prayer. 

John  Hall  Whedock 


"THE  WIND  BLEW  WORDS" 

The  wind  blew  words  along  the  skies, 

And  these  it  blew  to  me 
Through  the  wide  dusk:  "Lift  up  your  eyes, 

Behold  this  troubled  tree, 
Complaining  as  it  sways  and  plies; 

It  is  a  limb  of  thee. 

"Yea,  too,  the  creatures  sheltering  round — 

Dumb  figures,  wild  and  tame, 
Yea,  too,  thy  fellows  who  abound — 

Either  of  speech  the  same 
Of  far  and  strange — black,  dwarfed,  and  browned, 

They  are  stuff  of  thy  own  frame." 

I  moved  on  in  a  surging  awe 

Of  inarticulateness 
At  the  pathetic  Me  I  saw 

In  all  his  huge  distress, 
Making  self -slaughter  of  the  law 

To  kill,  bind,  or  suppress. 

Thomas  Hardy 


TRANSFORMATIONS 

Portion  of  this  yew 

Is  a  man  my  grandsire  knew, 

Bosomed  here  at  its  foot: 

This  branch  may  be  his  wife, 

A  ruddy  human  life 

Now  turned  to  a  green  shoot. 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  331 

These  grasses  must  be  made 
Of  her  who  often  prayed, 
Last  century,  for  repose; 
And  the  fair  girl  long  ago 
Whom  I  often  tried  to  know 
May  be  entering  this  rose. 

So,  they  are  not  underground, 
But  as  nerves  and  veins  abound 
In  the  growths  of  upper  air, 
And  they  feel  the  sun  and  rain, 
And  the  energy  again 
That  made  them  what  they  were. 

Thomas  Hardy 

PENETRALIA 

I  am  a  part  of  all  you  see 

In  Nature;  part  of  all  you  feel: 

I  am  the  impact  of  the  bee 

Upon  the  blossom;  in  the  tree 

I  am  the  sap, — that  shall  reveal 

The  leaf,  the  bloom, — that  flows  and  flutes 

Up  from  the  darkness  through  its  roots. 

I  am  the  vermeil  of  the  rose, 

The  perfume  breathing  in  its  veins; 

The  gold  within  the  mist  that  glows 

Along  the  west  and  overflows 

With  light  the  heaven;  the  dew  that  rains 

Its  freshness  down  and  strings  with  spheres 

Of  wet  the  webs  and  oaten  ears. 

I  am  the  egg  that  folds  the  bird; 

The  song  that  beaks  and  breaks  its  shell; 

The  laughter  and  the  wandering  word 

The  water  says;  and,  dimly 'heard, 

The  music  of  the  blossom's  bell 

When  soft  winds  swing  it;  and  the  sound 

Of  grass  slow-creeping  o'er  the  ground. 


332  NEW  VOICES 

I  am  the  warmth,  the  honey-scent 
That  throats  with  spice  each  lily-bud 
That  opens,  white  with  wonderment, 
Beneath  the  moon;  or,  downward  bent, 
Sleeps  with  a  moth  beneath  its  hood: 
I  am  the  dream  that  haunts  it  too, 
That  crystalizes  into  dew. 

I  am  the  seed  within  the  pod; 

The  worm  within  its  closed  cocoon: 

The  wings  within  the  circling  clod, 

The  germ  that  gropes  through  soil  and  sod 

To  beauty,  radiant  in  the  noon: 

I  am  all  these,  behold!  and  more — 

I  am  the  love  at  the  world-heart's  core. 

Madison  Cawein 

THE  WINDS 

Those  hewers  of  the  clouds,  the  Winds, — that  lair 

At  the  four  compass-points, — are  out  to-night; 

I  hear  their  sandals  trample  on  the  height, 

I  hear  their  voices  trumpet  through  the  air: 

Builders  of  storm,  God's  workmen,  now  they  bear, 

Up  the  steep  stair  of  sky,  on  backs  of  might, 

Huge  tempest  bulks,  while, — sweat  that  blinds  their  sight, — 

The  rain  is  shaken  from  tumultuous  hair: 

Now,  sweepers  of  the  firmament,  they  broom 

Like  gathered  dust,  the  rolling  mists  along 

Heaven's  floors  of  sapphire;  all  the  beautiful  blue 

Of  skyey  corridor  and  celestial  room 

Preparing,  with  large  laughter  and  loud  song, 

For  the  white  moon  and  stars  to  wander  through. 

Madison  Cawein 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     333 

THE  FURROW  AND  THE  HEARTH 

i 

Stride  the  hill,  sower, 
Up  to  the  sky-ridge, 
Flinging  the  seed, 
Scattering,  exultant! 
Mouthing  great  rhythms 
To  the  long  sea  beats 
On  the  wide  shore,  behind 
The  ridge  of  the  hillside. 

Below  in  the  darkness — 
The  slumber  of  mothers — 
The  cradles  at  rest — 
The  fire-seed  sleeping 
Deep  in  white  ashes! 

Give  to  darkness  and  sleep: 
O  sower,  O  seer! 
Give  me  to  the  Earth. 
With  the  seed  I  would  enter. 
O!  the  growth  thro'  the  silence 
From  strength  to  new  strength; 
Then  the  strong  bursting  forth 
Against  primal  forces, 
To  laugh  in  the  sunshine, 
To  gladden  the  world! 

n 

Who  will  bring  the  red  fire 
Unto  a  new  hearth? 
Who  will  lay  the  wide  stone 
On  the  waste  of  the  earth? 

Who  is  fain  to  begin 
To  build  day  by  day? 
To  raise  up  his  house 
Of  the  moist,  yellow  clay? 


334  NEW  VOICES 

There's  clay  for  the  making 
Moist  in  the  pit, 
There  are  horses  to  trample 
The  rushes  thro'  it. 

Above  where  the  wild  duck 
Arise  up  and  fly, 
There  one  may  build 
To  the  wind  and  the  sky. 

There  are  boughs  in  the  forest 
To  pluck  young  and  green, 
O'er  them  thatch  of  the  crop 
Shall  be  heavy  and  clean. 

I  speak  unto  him 

Who  in  dead  of  the  night 

Sees  the  red  streaks 

In  the  ash  deep  and  white. 

While  around  him  he  hears 
Men  stir  in  their  rest, 
And  stir  of  the  child 
That  is  close  to  the  breast! 

He  shall  arise, 
He  shall  go  forth  alone. 
Lay  stone  on  the  earth 
And  bring  fire  to  the  stone. 

Padraic  Colum 

DESIRE  IN  SPRING 

I  love  the  cradle  songs  the  mothers  sing 

In  lonely  places  when  the  twilight  drops, 

The  slow  endearing  melodies  that  bring 

Sleep  to  the  weeping  lids;  and,  when  she  stops, 

I  love  the  roadside  birds  upon  the  tops 

Of  dusty  hedges  in  a  world  of  Spring. 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  335 

And  when  the  sunny  rain  drips  from  the  edge 
Of  midday  wind,  and  meadows  lean  one  way, 
And  a  long  whisper  passes  thro'  the  sedge, 
Beside  the  broken  water  let  me  stay, 
While  these  old  airs  upon  my  memory  play, 
And  silent  changes  color  up  the  hedge. 

Francis  Ledwidge 

JUNE 

Broom  out  the  floor  now,  lay  the  fender  by, 
And  plant  this  bee-sucked  bough  of  woodbine  there, 
And  let  the  window  down.    The  butterfly 
Floats  in  upon  the  sunbeam,  and  the  fair 
Tanned  face  of  June,  the  nomad  gipsy,  laughs 
Above  her  widespread  wares,  the  while  she  tells 
The  farmers'  fortunes  in  the  fields,  and  quaffs 
The  water  from  the  spider-peopled  wells. 

The  hedges  are  all  drowned  in  green  grass  seas, 
And  bobbing  poppies  flare  like  Elmor's  light, 
While  siren-like  the  pollen-staine'd  bees 
Drone  in  the  clover  depths.    And  up  the  height 
The  cuckoo's  voice  is  hoarse  and  broke  with  joy. 
And  on  the  lowland  crops  the  crows  make  raid, 
Nor  fear  the  clappers  of  the  farmer's  boy 
Who  sleeps,  like  drunken  Noah,  in  the  shade. 

And  loop  this  red  rose  in  that  hazel  ring 
That  snares  your  little  ear,  for  June  is  short 
And  we  must  joy  in  it  and  dance  and  sing, 
And  from  her  bounty  draw  her  rosy  worth. 
Ay,  soon  the  swallows  will  be  flying  south, 
The  wind  wheel  north  to  gather  in  the  snow, 
Even  the  roses  spilt  on  youth's  red  mouth 
Will  soon  blow  down  the  road  all  roses  go. 

Francis  Ledwidge 


336  NEW  VOICES 

I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  the  sky, 
The  unending  sky,  with  all  its  million  suns 
Which  turn  their  planets  everlastingly 
In  nothing,  where  the  fire-haired  comet  runs. 

If  I  could  sail  that  nothing,  I  should  cross 
Silence  and  emptiness  with  dark  stars  passing, 
Then,  in  the  darkness,  see  a  point  of  gloss 
Burn  to  a  glow,  and  glare,  and  keep  amassing, 

And  rage  into  a  sun  with  wandering  planets 
And  drop  behind,  and  then,  as  I  proceed, 
See  his  last  light  upon  his  last  moon's  granites 
Die  to  a  dark  that  would  be  night  indeed. 

Night  where  my  soul  might  sail  a  million  years 
In  nothing,  not  even  Death,  not  even  tears. 

John  Masefidd 


A  DAY  FOR  WANDERING 

I  set  apart  a  day  for  wandering; 

I  heard  the  woodlands  ring, 

The  hidden  white-throat  sing, 

And  the  harmonic  West, 

Beyond  a  far  hill-crest, 

Touch  its  Aeolian  string. 

Remote  from  all  the  brawl  and  bruit  of  men, 

The  iron  tongue  of  Trade, 

I  followed  the  clear  calling  of  a  wren 

Deep  to  the  bosom  of  a  sheltered  glade, 

Where  interwoven  branches  spread  a  shade 

Of  soft  cool  beryl  like  the  evening  seas 

Unruffled  by  the  breeze. 

And  there — and  there — 

I  watched  the  maiden-hair, 

The  pale  blue  iris-grass, 

The  water-spider  in  its  pause  and  pass 

Upon  a  pool  that  like  a  mirror  was. 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     337 

I  took  for  confidant 

The  diligent  ant 

Threading  the  clover  and  the  sorrel  aisles; 

For  me  were  all  the  smiles 

Of  the  sequestered  blossoms  there  abloom — 

Chalice  and  crown  and  plume; 

I  drank  the  ripe  rich  attars  blurred  and  blent, 

And  won — Content! 

Clinton  Scollard 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  TREES 

I  wonder  about  the  trees. 

Why  do  we  wish  to  bear 

Forever  the  noise  of  these 

More  than  another  noise 

So  close  to  our  dwelling  place? 

We  suffer  them  by  the  day 

Till  we  lose  all  measure  of  pace, 

And  fixity  in  our  joys, 

And  acquire  a  listening  air. 

They  are  that  that  talks  of  going 

But  never  gets  away; 

And  that  talks  no  less  for  knowing, 

As  it  grows  wiser  and  older, 

That  now  it  means  to  stay. 

My  feet  tug  at  the  floor 

And  my  head  sways  to  my  shoulder 

Sometimes  when  I  watch  trees  sway, 

From  the  window  or  the  door. 

I  shall  set  forth  for  somewhere, 

I  shall  make  the  reckless  choice 

Some  day  when  they  are  in  voice 

And  tossing  so  as  to  scare 

The  white  clouds  over  them  on. 

I  shall  have  less  to  say, 

But  I  shall  be  gone. 

Robert  Frost 


338  NEW  VOICES 

EPITAPH 

Here  lies  the  flesh  that  tried 
To  follow  the  spirit's  leading; 

Fallen  at  last,  it  died, 

Broken,  bruised  and  bleeding, 

Burned  by  the  high  fires 

Of  the  spirit's  desires. 

It  had  no  dream  to  sing 
Of  ultimate  liberty; 

Fashioned  for  suffering, 
To  endure  transiently, 

And  conscious  that  it  must 

Return  as  dust  to  dust. 

It  blossomed  a  brief  hour, 
Was  rosy,  warm  and  strong; 

It  went  like  a  wilted  flower, 
It  ended  like  a  song; 

Someone  closed  a  door — 

And  it  was  seen  no  more. 

The  grass  is  very  kind; 

(It  knows  so  many  dead!) 
Those  whom  it  covers  find 

Their  wild  hearts  comforted; 
Their  pulses  need  not  meet 
The  spirit's  speed  and  heat. 

Here  lies  the  flesh  that  held 
The  spirit  prisoner — 

A  caged  thing  that  rebelled, 
Forced  to  subminister; 

Broken  it  had  to  be; 

To  set  its  captive  free. 

It  is  very  glad  to  rest, 
It  calls  to  roots  and  rain, 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     339 

Safe  in  its  mother's  breast, 

Ready  to  bloom  again. 
After  a  day  and  an  hour 
'Twill  greet  the  sun  a  flower. 

Louise  Driscoll 


NATURE'S  FRIEND* 

Say  what  you  like, 
All  things  love  me! 

I  pick  no  flowers — 
That  wins  the  Bee. 


The  Summer's  Moths 
Think  my  hand  one— 

To  touch  their  wings — 
With  Wind  and  Sun. 

The  garden  Mouse 
Comes  near  to  play; 

Indeed,  he  turns 
His  eyes  away. 

The  Wren  knows  well 

I  rob  no  nest; 
When  I  look  in, 

She  still  will  rest. 


The  hedge  stops  Cows, 
Or  they  would  come 

After  my  voice 
Right  to  my  home. 


The  Horse  can  tell, 
Straight  from  my  lip, 

My  hand  could  not 
Hold  any  whip. 


By  arrangement  with  Mr.  Davies'  London  publisher,  A.  C.  Flfield. 


340  NEW  VOICES 

Say  what  you  like, 

All  things  love  me! 
Horse,  Cow,  and  Mouse, 

Bird,  Moth  and  Bee. 

William  H.  Davits 

MOUNTAIN  SONG 

I  have  not  where  to  lay  my  head; 

Upon  my  breast  no  child  shall  lie; 
For  me  no  marriage  feast  is  spread: 

I  walk  alone  under  the  sky. 

My  staff  and  scrip  I  cast  away — 
Light-burdened  to  the  mountain  height! 

Climbing  the  rocky  steep  by  day, 
Kindling  my  fire  against  the  night. 

The  bitter  hail  shall  flower  the  peak, 

The  icy  wind  shall  dry  my  tears. 
Strong  shall  I  be,  who  am  but  weak, 

When  bright  Orion  spears  my  fears. 

Under  the  horned  moon  I  shall  rise, 

Up  swinging  on  the  scarf  of  dawn. 
The  sun,  searching  with  level  eyes, 

Shall  take  my  hand  and  lead  me  on. 

Wide  flaming  pinions  veil  the  West — 

Ah,  shall  I  find?  and  shall  I  know? 
My  feet  are  bound  upon  the  Quest — 

Over  the  Great  Divide  I  go. 

Harriet  Monroe 

SANTA  BARBARA  BEACH 

Now  while  the  sunset  offers, 

Shall  we  not  take  our  own: 
The  gems,  the  blazing  coffers, 

The  seas,  the  shores,  the  throne? 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  341 

The  sky-ships,  radiant-masted, 

Move  out,  bear  low  our  way. 
Oh,  Life  was  dark  while  it  lasted, 

Now  for  enduring  day. 

Now  with  the  world  far  under, 

To  draw  up  drowning  men 
And  show  them  lands  of  wonder 

Where  they  may  build  again. 

There  earthly  sorrow  falters, 

There  longing  has  its  wage; 
There  gleam  the  ivory  altars 

Of  our  lost  pilgrimage. 

— Swift  flame — then  shipwrecks  only 

Beach  in  the  ruined  light; 
Above  them  reach  up  lonely 

The  headlands  of  the  night. 

A  hurt  bird  cries  and  flutters 

Her  dabbled  breast  of  brown; 
The  western  wall  unshutters 

To  fling  one  last  rose  down. 

A  rose,  a  wild  light  after — 

And  life  calls  through  the  years, 
"Who  dreams  my  fountains'  laughter 

Shall  feed  my  wells  with  tears." 

Ridgely  Torrence 

IN  THE  MOHAVE 

As  I  rode  down  the  arroyo  through  yuccas  belled  with  bloom 
I  saw  a  last  year's  stalk  lift  dried  hands  to  the  light, 

Like  age  at  prayer  for  death  within  a  careless  room, 
Like  one  by  day  o'ertaken  whose  sick  desire  is  night. 

And  as  I  rode  I  saw  a  lean  coyote  lying 

All  perfect  as  in  life  upon  a  silver  dune, 
Save  that  his  feet  no  more  could  flee  the  harsh  light's  spying, 

Save  that  no  more  his  shadow  would  cleave  the  sinking  moon. 


342  NEW  VOICES 

O  cruel  land,  where  form  endures,  the  spirit  fled! 

You  chill  the  sun  for  me  with  your  gray  sphinx's  smile, 
Brooding  in  the  bright  silence  above  your  captive  dead, 

Where  beat  the  heart  of  life  so  brief,  so  brief  a  while! 

Patrick  On 

THE  LAST  DAYS 

The  russet  leaves  of  the  sycamore 

Lie  at  last  on  the  valley  floor — 

By  the  autumn  wind  swept  to  and  fro 

Like  ghosts  in  a  tale  of  long  ago. 

Shallow  and  clear  the  Carmel  glides 

Where  the  willows  droop  on  its  vine-walled  sides. 

The  bracken-rust  is  red  on  the  hill; 

The  pines  stand  brooding,  somber  and  still; 

Gray  are  the  cliffs,  and  the  waters  gray, 

Where  the  seagulls  dip  to  the  sea-born  spray. 

Sad  November,  lady  of  rain, 

Sends  the  goose-wedge  over  again. 

Wilder  now,  for  the  verdure's  birth, 
Falls  the  sunlight  over  the  earth; 
Kildees  call  from  the  fields  where  now 
The  banding  blackbirds  follow  the  plow; 
Rustling  poplar  and  brittle  weed 
Whisper  low  to  the  river-reed. 

Days  departing  linger  and  sigh: 
Stars  come  soon  to  the  quiet  sky; 
Buried  voices,  intimate,  strange, 
Cry  to  body  and  soul  of  change; 
Beauty,  eternal,  fugitive, 
Seeks  the  home  that  we  cannot  give. 

George  Sterling 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY  343 

THE  BLACK   VULTURE 

Aloof  upon  the  day's  immeasured  dome, 

He  holds  unshared  the  silence  of  the  sky. 

Far  down  his  bleak,  relentless  eyes  descry 
The  eagle's  empire  and  the  falcon's  home — 
Far  down,  the  galleons  of  sunset  roam; 

His  hazards  on  the  sea  of  morning  lie; 

Serene,  he  hears  the  broken  tempest  sigh 
Where  cold  sierras  gleam  like  scattered  foam. 

And  least  of  all  he  holds  the  human  swarm — 
Unwitting  now  that  envious  men  prepare 

To  make  their  dream  and  its  fulfillment  one, 
When,  poised  above  the  caldrons  of  the  storm, 
Their  hearts,  contemptuous  of  death,  shall  dare 
His  roads  between  the  thunder  and  the  sun. 

George  Sterling 

ON  THE   GREAT  PLATEAU 

In  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  far  away  and  far  away, 

Cool-breathed  waters  dip  and  dally,  linger  towards  another  day — 

Far  and  far  away — far  away. 

Slow  their  floating  step,  but  tireless,  terraced  down  the  great  Plateau. 

Towards  our  ways  of  steam  and  wireless,  silver-paced  the  brook-beds 

go- 

Past  the  ladder-walled  Pueblos,  past  the  orchards,  pear  and  quince, 
Where  the  back-locked  river's  ebb  flows,  miles  and  miles  the  valley 

glints, 
Shining  backwards,  singing  downwards,  towards  horizons  blue  and 

bay. 

All  the  roofs  the  roads  ensconce  so  dream  of  visions  far  away — 
Santa  Cruz  and  Ildefonso,  Santa  Clara,  Santa  Fe. 
Ancient,  sacred  fears  and  faiths,  ancient,  sacred  faiths  and  fears — • 
Some  were  real,  some  were  wraiths — Indian,  Franciscan  years, 
Built  the  Khivas,  swung  the  bells;  while  the  wind  sang  plain  and  free, 
"Turn  your  eyes  from  visioned  hells! — look  as  far  as  you  can  see!" 
In  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  far  away  and  far  away, 
Dying  dreams  divide  and  dally,  crystal-terraced  waters  sally — 
Linger  towards  another  day,  far  and  far  away — far  away. 


/"  is-  f 


NEW  VOICES 

As  you  follow  where  you  find  them,  up  along  the  high  Plateau,  ' 
In  the  hollows  left  behind  them  Spanish  chapels  fade  below  — 
Shaded  court  and  low  corrals.    In  the  vale  the  goat-herd  browses. 
Hollyhocks  are  seneschals  by  the  little  buff-  walled  houses. 
Over  grassy  swale  and  alley  have  you  ever  seen  it  so  — 
Up  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  riding  on  the  Great  Plateau? 
Past  the  ladder-walled  Pueblos,  past  the  orchards,  pear  and  quince, 
Where  the  trenched  waters'  ebb  flows,  miles  and  miles  the  valley  glints, 
Shining  backwards,  singing  downwards  towards  horizons  blue  and 

bay. 

All  the  haunts  the  bluffs  ensconce  so  breathe  of  visions  far  away, 
As  you  ride  near  Ildefonso  back  again  to  Santa  Fe. 
Pecos,  mellow  with  the  years,  tall-walled  Taos  —  who  can  know 
Half  the  storied  faiths  and  fears  haunting  green  New  Mexico? 
Only  from  her  open  places  down  arroyos  blue  and  bay, 
One  wild  grace  of  many  graces  dallies  towards  another  day. 
Where  her  yellow  tufa  crumbles,  something  stars  and  grasses  know, 
Something  true,  that  crowns  and  humbles,  shimmers  from  the  Great 

Plateau: 

Blows  where  cool-paced  waters  dally  from  the  stillness  of  Puye, 
Down  the  Santa  Clara  Valley  through  the  world  from  far  away  —  • 
Far  and  far  away  —  far  away. 

Edith  Wyatt 


->       2 

s 


THE  MORNING  SONG  OF  SENLIN 

It  is  morning,  Senlin  says,  .and  in  the  morning  y 

When  the  light  drips  through  the  shutters  like  the  dew, 
I  arise,  I  face  the  sunrise, 
And  do  the  things  my  fathers  learned  to  do.     </  <^- 

tars  in  the  purple  dusk  above  the  rooftops 
Pale  in  a  saffron  mist  and  seem  to  die, 
And  I  myself  on  a  swiftly  tilting  planet 
Stand  before  a  glass  and  tie  my  tie. 


Vine  leaves  tap  my  window, 
Dew-drops  sing  to  the  garden  stones, 
The  robin  chirps  in  the  chinaberry  tree 
Repeating  three  clear  tones. 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY     345 

M         i  J  fl    «/N  tTV    t/t/   PX 

It  is  morning.    I  stand  by  the  mirror 
And  tie  my  tie  once  more.  /   ** 

Whjle  "waves  f^r  off  in  a  pale  rose  twilight    3.~f   ft  T 
Crash  on  a  white  sand  shore.       0  J  T 
I  stand  by  a  mirror  and  comb  my  h^ir:  T  fr  ft  £ 
How  small  and  white  my  face! — 

The  green  earth  tilts  through  a  sphere  of  air   X  T  R  JT 
And  bathes  in  a  flame  of  space. 
^  **       There  are  houses  hanging  above  the  stars 
And  stars  hung  under  a  sea  .  .> .  JT  y  ft 
Anjd  a  sun  far  off  in  a  shell  of  silelnce    flf  J?  *  0 
Dapples  my  walls  for  me  .  .  .     OXX 

It  is  morning,  Senlin  says,  and  in  the  morning 

Should  I  not  pause  in  the  light  to  remember  god?  jfJT  ft 

Upright  and  firm  I  stand  on  a  star  unstable, 

He  is  immense  and  lonely  as  a  cloud,  if,  T  7"^ 

I  will  dedicate  this  moment  before  my  mirror  .  .    .       '          pj> 

To  him  alone,  for  him  I  will  comb  my  hair. 

Accept  these  humble  offerings,  cloud  of  silence! 

I  will  think  of  you  as  I  descend  the  stair. 

Vine  leaves  tap  my  window, 
The  snail-track  shines  on  the  stones, 
Dew-drops  flash  from  the  chinaberry  tree 
Repeating  two  clear  tones. 

It  is  morning,  I  awake  from  a  bed  of  silence, 
Shining  I  rise  from  the  starless  waters  of  sleep. 
The  walls  are  about  me  still  as  in  the  evening, 
I  am  the  same,  and  the  same  name  still  I  keep. 
The  earth  revolves  with  me,  yet  makes  no  motion, 
The  stars  pale  silently  in  a  coral  sky. 
In  a  whistling  void  I  stand  before  my  mirror, 
Unconcerned,  and  tie  my  tie. 

There  are  horses  neighing  on  far-off  hills 
Tossing  their  long  white  manes, 
And  mountains  flash  in  the  rose-white  dusk, 
Their  shoulders  black  with  rains  . 


346  NEW  VOICES 

It  is  morning.    I  stand  by  the  mirror 
And  surprise  my  soul  once  more; 
The  blue  air  rushes  above  my  ceiling, 
There  are  suns  beneath  my  floor  .  .  . 

...  It  is  morning,  Senlin  says,  I  ascend  from  darkness 
And  depart  on  the  winds  of  space  for  I  know  not  where, 
My  watch  is  wound,  a  key  is  in  my  pocket. 
And  the  sky  is  darkened  as  I  descend  the  stair. 
There  are  shadows  across  the  windows,  clouds  in  heaven, 
And  a  god  among  the  stars;  and  I  will  go 
Thinking  of  him  as  I  might  think  of  daybreak 
And  humming  a  tune  I  know  .  .  . 

Vine-leaves  tap  at  the  window, 
Dew-drops  sing  to  the  garden  stones, 
The  robin  chirps  in  the  chinaberry  tree 
Repeating  three  clear  tones. 

Conrad  Aiken 


CANTICLE 

Devoutly  worshiping  the  oak 
Wherein  the  barred  owl  stares, 
The  little  feathered  forest  folk 
Are  praying  sleepy  prayers: 

Praying  the  summer  to  be  long 
And  drowsy  to  the  end, 
And  daily  full  of  sun  and  song, 
That  broken  hopes  may  mend. 

Praying  the  golden  age  to  stay 
Until  the  whippoorwill 
Appoints  a  windy  moving-day, 
And  hurries  from  the  hill. 

William  Griffith 


NATURE  IN  CONTEMPORARARY  POETRY         347 

All  vision  fades,  but  splendor  does  not  fail 
Though  joy  perish  and  all  her  company 
And  there  be  nothing  left  of  it  to  see. 
Splendor  is  in  the  grain.    This  lovely  vale 
Of  rock  and  tree  and  pool  and  sky  may  pale 
And  fade  some  Autumn  with  its  greenery, 
And  its  form  totter,  crumble  utterly 
And  scatter  with  some  universal  gale. 
Yet  be  they  spread  ever  so  wide  and  free 
The  gale  will  cause  the  dream  to  come  again 
The  world  formations  out  of  mists  will  rise, 
And  there  will  be  thoughts  of  eternity 
And  hopes  the  heart  of  man  will  know  are  vain 
And  tears  will  come  as  now  into  the  eyes. 

Samuel  Roth 


PERSONALITY  IN  POETRY 

Poetry  enables  us  to  share  many  experiences,  the  epic  desires 
and  agonies  of  great  cities,  the  homely  triumphs  and  tragedies  of 
field  and  farmhouse,  the  lyric  pleasure  of  cool  woods,  subtle 
picturing,  grave  symbolism,  and  the  zest  of  fluent  ideas  and 
emotions.  In  addition  to  all  this,  poetry  enables  us  to  share 
one  other  thing,  a  sense  of  that  mysterious  human  inflorescence 
which  we  call  personality. 

By  virtue  of  his  sympathetic  imagination,  a  good  poet  enters 
many  spiritual  mansions  and  entertains  many  ghostly  visitors. 
Often  he  knows  more  about  us  than  we  know  about  ourselves 
and  about  each  other.  For  his  proper  study  is  mankind.  Prac- 
tical persons  must  always  be  concerned  with  facts,  deeds,  and 
events.  But  the  poet  is  chiefly  interested  in  that  impulsive 
energy  which  is  the  causation  of  facts,  deeds  and  events — the 
human  spirit. 

A  detective,  for  example,  may  be  clever  enough  in  using  his 
constructive  imagination,  to  learn  that  a  certain  old  woman  has 
stolen  a  diamond  and  hidden  it  in  her  stocking.  But  his  achieve- 
ment is  small  as  compared  with  that  of  the  poet  who  tells  her 
story.  For  the  poet  will  reconstruct  her  world  and  show  it  to  us. 
Through  his  eyes  we  shall  see  her  eager  old  face,  her  nervous, 
twitching  fingers.  Through  his  penetrative  power  we  shall 
learn  why  she  wanted  the  diamond.  And  he  will  cause  us  to 
share  a  definite  feeling  with  regard  to  the  theft — pain,  disgust, 
compassion — as  the  case  may  be.  This  feeling  will  be  strong 
and  moving  in  proportion  as  the  poet  possesses  the  gift  of  char- 
acterization. 

Modern  civilization,  on  the  whole,  has  been  favorable  to  the 
development  of  this  skill.  Many  contemporary  poets  take  up 
their  task  of  presenting  personality  in  poetry  with  an  equip- 

348 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       349 

ment  of  knowledge  that  poets  of  earlier  generations  lacked, 
or  had  only  by  intuition.  The  growth  of  the  spirit  of  democracy 
in  the  modern  world  has  enabled  many  sorts  of  men  and  women 
to  meet  socially  and  for  the  transaction  of  business.  We  have 
travelled  more  than  was  ever  possible  in  earlier  eras.  Each  of 
the  world's  great  metropolitan  cities  has  become  a  small  inter- 
nation,  affording  every  facility  for  spiritual  interchange  between 
national  and  racial  types.  Whenever  we  read  a  newspaper  we 
are  made  aware  of  the  needs  and  problems  of  people  thousands 
of  miles  away.  We  eat  food  which  they  prepare  for  us,  and  we 
ourselves  prepare  other  foods  for  them.  It  has  been  shown 
that  we  are  all  interdependent  to  such  an  extent  that  necessarily 
any  great  war  must  involve  us  all.  All  of  the  world  is  beginning 
to  know  all  the  world  as  neighbor.  That  is  how  it  happens  that 
a  poet  of  to-day  may  have  a  broader  knowledge  of  mankind 
than  was  possible  for  poets  of  an  earlier  period.  But  that  is  not 
all.  In  addition  to  this  breadth  of  vision,  which  may  be  his 
if  he  wills  it,  he  has  the  means  of  testing  and  deepening  his  knowl- 
edge of  men  and  women.  Science  has  destroyed  many  illusions, 
but  it  has  fostered  many  faiths.  Biology  has  shown  us  the  mar- 
vellous ascension  of  life  throughout  all  the  ages.  Psychology 
is  explaining  man's  mind,  the  microcosm.  All  of  the  so-called 
exact  sciences  have  stimulated  the  minds  and  imaginations  of 
progressive  persons  by  revealing  laws  and  forces  more  wonder- 
ful than  any  of  the  miracles  man  dreamed.  Dogma,  always 
the  bane  of  poets,  is  giving  way  before  the  pure  love  of  questing 
for  truth  which  Science  implants  in  her  devotees.  Through 
science,  as  through  democracy,  we  are  learning  more  about  our- 
selves and  about  each  other.  By  the  love  of  truth  and  by  the 
love  of  the  people  poets  grow  wise  for  their  work  of  interpreta- 
tion. 

Therefore  it  is  not  strange  that  many  contemporary  poets  are 
keen  students  of  character  and  apt  in  their  presentation  of 
personality.  Moreover,  by  virtue  of  being  poets,  they  are  able 
to  make  their  presentation  of  character  concise,  vivid,  emotional, 
and  impressive  in  a  degree  not  possible  to  most  writers  of  prose. 


350  NEW  VOICES 

Perhaps  that  is  why  we  remember  poems  like  "The  Everlasting 
Mercy,"  "Dauber,"  "Hoops,"  "A  Hundred  Collars,"  "Snow," 
and  many  others  more  readily  than  we  remember  any  of  the 
hundreds  of  short  stories  that  we  read  in  magazines.  Short 
prose  fiction  must  be  the  work  of  genius,  like  good  narrative 
poetry,  if  we  are  to  remember  it.  It  seldom  is. 

Gordon  Bottomley  is  one  English  poet  who  excels  in  the 
presentation  of  personality.  In  his  dramatic  poem, "  King  Lear's 
Wife,"  he  gives  us  a  totally  new  conception  of  the  fabled  king. 
He  teaches  us  to  sympathize  with  the  queen,  Lear's  wife.  This 
play  is  stark,  uncompromising,  grim  and  ugly  realism  from 
beginning  to  end.  But  it  is  unforgettable.  Each  character  is 
like  a  heroic  statue  rough-hewn  from  granite.  The  work  has 
been  cruelly  done.  The  expressions  on  the  stone  faces  are  cruel. 
But  we  have  a  sense  of  certainty  as  to  the  truth  of  it.  Goneril, 
who  despises  her  sister,  Regan,  describes  her  in  the  following 
vigorously  scornful  lines: 

"Does  Regan  worship  anywhere  at  dawn? 
The  sweaty,  half -clad  cook-maids  render  lard 
Out  in  the  scullery,  after  pig-killing, 
And  Regan  sidles  among  their  greasy  skirts, 
Smeary  and  hot  as  they,  for  craps  to  suck." 

It  is  most  unlovely,  of  course,  and  so  also  is  the  conversation  of 
the  common  women  who  come  to  bathe  the  dead  queen  and  dress 
her  in  grave-clothes.  But  it  is  a  work  of  genius  that  the  reader 
can  never  forget. 

Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  is  also  a  realist,  but  kinder.  He  writes 
about  the  people  of  our  twentieth  century  world,  chiefly  about 
the  English  laboring  class,  men  and  women  of  the  mines,  the 
factories  and  the  farms.  He  knows  their  life.  He  interprets  it 
adequately.  He  gives  us  a  true  sense  of  the  oppressive  weight  of 
poverty  upon  mind  and  heart,  of  the  danger  and  difficulty  of 
manual  labor,  of  the  bitterness  of  undeserved  defeat.  But 
he  gives  us  also  a  sense  of  the  sweetness  and  sanity  of  the  re- 
spectable poor  and  of  the  dignity  of  the  soul  of  the  people.  He 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      351 

writes  about  plain  men  and  women  with  sagacious  simplicity. 
But  one  thing  he  seems  to  be  unable  to  do.  He  can  not  in- 
dividualize them.  We  do  not  remember  them  as  we  remember 
Scrooge,  Tiny  Tim,  or  Mr.  Pickwick. 

Mr.  Gibson  creates  types  rather  than  individuals.  But  a  type, 
after  all,  is  only  a  generalization  from  kindred  qualities  in  many 
individuals.  And  the  able  presentation  of  a  type  is  no  mean 
achievement.  As  types,  these  people  in  his  verse  belong  every- 
where. The  workman  he  describes  is  a  real  workman.  The 
mothers  he  describes  are  real  mothers.  In  his  fine  little  dra- 
matic poem,  "On  The  Road,"  he  tells  the  story  of  the  ordinary 
man  and  the  ordinary  woman  and  the  ordinary  baby,  all  hungry 
because  the  ordinary  man  is  out  of  a  job;  and  all  a  little  bit 
unhappy  but  very  plucky.  That  is  the  whole  story.  But  it  is 
admirably  told.  As  types,  these  people  could  hardly  be  better 
presented. 

Unlike  Mr.  Gibson,  Walter  de  la  Mare  has,  in  his  own  shadowy 
way,  a  real  genius  for  the  presentation  of  individual  personality. 
His  poems  are  all  combinations  of  twilight  shades,  charming 
compositions  in  violet,  ivory  and  olive.  But  his  pictures,  made 
with  colors  that  would  seem  to  be  evanescent,  succeed  in  fixing 
themselves  indelibly  in  our  minds.  Who  can  forget  "Miss 
Loo"  when  once  he  has  been  properly  introduced  to  her  in  the 
poem  that  takes  its  title  from  her  name? 

"When  thin-strewn  memory  I  look  through, 

I  see  most  clearly  poor  Miss  Loo, 

Her  tabby  cat,  her  cage  of  birds, 

Her  nose,  her  hair — her  muffled  words, 

And  how  she'd  open  her  green  eyes 

As  if  in  some  immense  surprise, 

Whenever  as  we  sat  at  tea 

She  made  some  small  remark  to  me." 

John  Masefield  is  known  the  world  over  as  the  poet  of  the 
wanderer  and  the  outcast,  and,  in  his  narrative  poems,  rough 
men  and  women  are  presented  in  masterly  fashion.  They  are 


352  NEW  VOICES 

individual  human  beings,  each  with  his  own  flavor.  Having 
made  their  acquaintance  in  these  tales  we  know  them  as  we 
know  our  neighbors.  The  widowed  mother  in  "The  Widow  In 
The  Bye  Street"  is  a  tragic  madonna  who  has  won  our  com- 
passion and  keeps  it.  Lord  Rosas,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the 
poem  called  after  him,  "Rosas,"  is  a  most  romantic  villain,  a 
very  prince  of  iniquities.  He  is  well  characterized  in  the  fol- 
lowing stanza. 

"Death  was  his  god,  his  sword,  his  creed  of  power, 
Death  was  his  pleasure,  for  he  took  delight 
To  make  his  wife  and  daughter  shrink  and  cower 
By  tales  of  murder  wreaked  on  Red  or  White, 
And  while  these  women  trembled  and  turned  pale, 
He  shrieked  with  laughter  at  the  witty  tale." 

But  the  finest  work  of  characterization  that  John  Masefield 
has  ever  done  is  probably  to  be  found  in  his  superb  narrative 
poem  which  tells  the  story  of  "Dauber,"  the  man  who  shipped 
as  a  sailor  that  he  might  learn  the  moods  of  the  sea  and  how  to 
paint  her,  the  man  whose  drawings  were  destroyed  by  the  crazy 
and  futile  humor  of  his  mates,  whose  body  was  broken  by  an 
accident  of  the  life  he  was  living,  but  who  learned  from  his 
rough  comrades  a  manhood  strong  as  their  own,  and  finer.  The 
glory  of  spiritual  triumph,  of  the  effort  that  seems  to  be  in  vain, 
is  what  makes  this  one  of  the  finest  narrative  poems  in  our  lan- 
guage. 

Contemporary  American  poets,  also,  have  presented  char- 
acter with  the  vividness  and  power  of  genius.  Robert  Frost 
has  told  us  just  what  the  men  and  women  of  rural  New  England 
are  like.  Their  racial  and  personal  qualities  are  all  to  be  found 
in  his  poetry.  Vachel  Lindsay  has  given  us  the  soul  of  the  Sal- 
vation Army  man  on  the  corner,  of  the  temperance  worker  of 
the  Middle  West  with  a  "mussy  bonnet"  on  her  "little  grey 
head,"  of  soap-box  orators,  saints  and  voodoos,  of  the  Jinn  and 
of  Aladdin.  In  particular  it  ought  to  be  said  of  him  that  he  has 
written  a  number  of  poems  which  ably  characterize  the  negro, 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      353 

presenting  many  of  the  attractive  qualities  of  the  race  and  the 
vitality  of  it  without  the  sentimentality  of  most  American  poetry 
on  this  theme.  In  his  social  and  choral  poem  about  King  Solo- 
mon and  The  Queen  of  Sheba  he  shows  the  negro's  love  of  for- 
mality, music,  and  fine  manners.  In  popular  poetry  Ruth  Com- 
fort Mitchell  has  written  a  number  of  quaint  and  attractive 
poems  about  American  people  and  they  have  been  published 
together  in  "The  Night  Court  and  Other  Verses."  Her  poem, 
"St.  John  of  Nepomuc,"  is  a  fresh  and  gratifying  revelation 
of  the  soul  of  the  college  freshman,  as  we  used  to  know  him  in 
the  days  before  the  war.  Mary  Aldis  has  made  many  dry,  sharp, 
little  sketches  of  personality,  but  her  plays  written  in  prose  are 
better  literature  than  her  poetry.  Florence  Wilkinson,  in  "Stu- 
dents," has  given  us  a  charming  picture  of  the  life  of  young  stu- 
dents in  Paris.  Robert  Haven  SchaufHer  has  written  a  note- 
worthy poem  about  Washington  and  another  called  "Scum  O' 
The  Earth,"  which  is  an  idealization  of  racial  types.  In  it  he 
describes  the  immigrant  as  he  comes  into  New  York  harbor 
from  everywhere  else  in  the  world.  In  each  racial  type  Mr. 
Schauffler  sees  the  racial  genius,  and  in  all  of  them,  and  in  their 
coming,  he  sees  the  spiritual  opulence  of  America.  Louis  Un- 
termeyer,  who  is  one  of  the  best  critics  of  American  literature 
and  a  brilliant  poet,  has  written  an  admirable  poem  about 
Moses,  in  which  the  great  Biblical  hero  is  represented  as  having 
the  moods  and  emotions  of  a  just  and  righteous  labor  leader. 
And  if  we  take  away  from  ancient  history  the  glamour  of  the 
antique,  that  is  just  what  Moses  was. 

Joyce  Kilmer,  whose  lyrics  are  well  known  and  loved,  has 
written  one  poem  which  is  a  very  delicate  realization  of  a  charm- 
ing personality.  "Martin"  deserves  friendly  consideration  in 
a  place  by  itself.  It  is  even  better  and  more  memorable  than 
Walter  de  la  Mare's  "Miss  Loo,"  a  poem  of  the  same  kind. 
Only  a  few  persons  like  "Old  Martin"  walk  up  and  down  the 
streets  of  our  cities  wearing  "an  overcoat  of  glory,"  and  when  a 
poet  meets  one  of  them  he  does  well  to  share  him  with  us  all. 

Witter  Bynner's  beautiful  poem,  "The  New  World,"  is  as 


354  NEW  VOICES 

much  a  sharing  of  rich  and  beautiful  personality  as  it  is  a  lyrical 
tale  of  democracy  and  immortality.  Very  happily  Mr.  Bynner 
tells  us  of  Celia,  a  superlatively  gracious  woman,  and  of  the 
noble  friendliness  of  her  speech. 

"Among  good  citizens,  I  praise 

Again  a  woman  whom  I  knew  and  know, 

A  citizen  whom  I  have  seen 

Most  heartily,  most  patiently 

Making  God's  mind, 

A  citizen  who,  dead, 

Yet  shines  across  her  white-remembered  ways 

As  the  nearness  of  a  light  across  the  snow.  .  . 

My  Celia,  mystical,  serene, 

Laughing  and  kind.  .  . 


"  And  O  my  citizen,  perhaps  the  few 
Whom  I  shall  tell  of  you 
Will  see  with  me  your  beauty  who  are  dead, 
Will  hear  with  me  your  voice  and  what  it  said!" 

But  in  shrewd  understanding  of  personality  and  as  a  brilliant 
analyst  of  character,  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  has  no  superior 
among  living  American  poets.  Unlike  the  men  who  are  his 
peers,  Vachel  Lindsay,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Robert  Frost,  Mr. 
Robinson  is  not  a  poet  of  the  people.  He  is  rather  a  poet  of  the 
intellectuals.  His  humor  is  restrained  and  civil.  Even  his 
tragedies  are  urbane.  He  writes  with  a  quiet  distinction  of  man- 
ner that  is  sometimes  annoying  to  all  but  intellectual  aristo- 
crats. He  must  have  rubbed  shoulders  with  life  and  borne  the 
brunt  of  many  burdens  and  known  life's  give  and  take.  For 
his  sympathy  is  exquisite.  He  must  have  been  familiar  with 
many  tragedies,  for  he  has  a  rare  understanding  of  a  few.  But 
his  poetry,  as  poetry,  is  far  from  the  common  earth  and  from 
the  feeling  of  the  folk.  With  unerring  precision  he  defines  the 
complex  and  sophisticated  personality.  And,  even  if  we  are 
unwilling  to  call  him  a  great  poet,  we  must,  nevertheless,  admit 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       355 

that  he  is  an  exceedingly  brilliant  poet,  with  a  sure  sense  of 
personal  values,  a  rare  power  of  discrimination  between  this  and 
that,  and  the  essential  nobleness  of  gesture  which  is  part  of 
being  a  gentleman.  His  poems  are  somewhat  like  the  fine  draw- 
ings in  India  ink  made  by  a  skilled  draughtsman,  looking  through 
a  microscope  in  a  biological  laboratory.  They  are  just  as  ac- 
curate as  such  drawings. 

Mr.  Robinson's  sharp-edged  intellectuality  and  his  astringent 
humor  are  at  their  best  in  his  drolly  pathetic  little  poem  about 
"Miniver  Cheevy"  (O  masterly  nomenclature!)  who  loved  the 
Medici — 

"  Albeit  he  had  never  seen  one; 
He  would  have  sinned  incessantly 

Could  he  have  been  one." 

It  would  be  well  nigh  impossible  to  forget  a  man  who 

"missed  the  mediaeval  grace 
Of  iron  clothing." 

Perhaps  nobody  has  made  a  more  vivid  picture  of  the  man  who 
is  a  romantic  misfit  in  his  own  times  and  environment. 

Just  as  true  to  human  experience,  and  much  more  tragic  in  its 
implications,  is  that  acrid  poem,  "Richard  Cory."  Richard  Cory 
was  a  gentleman  whom  common  people  envied.  He  was  "  Clean- 
favored  and  imperially  slim."  He  "fluttered  pulses"  when  he 
said  "Good  morning."  He  "glittered"  when  he  walked.  But 
it  was  Richard  Cory,  not  the  common  people  who  envied  him, 
who  could  not  live  life  through  faithfully  to  the  end. 

In  both  of  these  poems  by  Mr.  Robinson  even  a  new  reader  of 
contemporary  poetry  can  recognize  an  impeccable  technique. 
The  spare  and  austere  use  of  words  in  exactly  the  right  places, 
the  accuracy  and  strength  of  the  words,  always  in  keeping  with 
meaning  and  mood  and  with  the  sober  rhythms,  is  nothing  short 
of  masterly.  It  is  well  to  notice,  also,  that  this  is  technique  of 
the  modern  kind.  Mr.  Robinson  does  not  explain  the  suicide 
of  Richard  Cory.  He  does  not  moralize  about  it,  although  the 


356  NEW  VOICES 

reader  is  free  to  draw  a  moral  from  this  study  if  he  wishes  to 
think  about  it  in  that  way  and  for  that  purpose.  Mr.  Robinson 
enables  us  to  share  the  personality  of  this  Richard  Cory  and  the 
shock  of  the  news  of  his  suicide,  that  is  all.  The  story  is  told 
and  the  poem  stops.  But  he  does  focus  our  attention  on  what 
people  thought  of  Richard  Cory  and  upon  what  the  man  really 
was.  He  shows  clearly  that  he  was  externally  and  materially 
rich,  inwardly  and  spiritually  poor. 

Even  more  interesting  and  more  subtle  is  the  poem  called 
"Flammonde."  It  is  about  a  man  who  lived  easily  in  "the 
grand  style,"  on  credit.  The  effect  upon  the  reader's  conscious- 
ness is  less  harsh  than  the  effect  of  "Richard  Cory."  It  is  a 
gentler  poem  than  either  of  the  two  already  quoted.  How  much 
is  said  of  the  man  "Flammonde"  in  the  following  lines' 

"His  cleansing  heritage  of  taste 
Paraded  neither  want  nor  waste; 
And  what  he  needed  for  his  fee 
To  live,  he  borrowed  graciously. 


"  Moreover,  many  a  malcontent 
He  soothed  and  found  munificent; 
His  courtesy  beguiled  and  foiled 
Suspicion  that  his  years  were  soiled; 
His  mien  distinguished  any  crowd, 
His  credit  strengthened  when  he  bowed; 
And  women,  young  and  old,  were  fond 
Of  looking  at  the  man  Flammonde." 

With  this  same  expertness  of  thought  and  technique  Mr. 
Robinson  has  written  many  other  poems.  The  least  valuable 
and  successful  is  "Merlin,"  a  retelling  of  part  of  the  Arthurian 
legend.  It  is  unsuccessful  because  Mr.  Robinson  has  not  the 
temperament  for  that  task.  He  can  think  back  into  the  period 
when  men  believed  in  wizardry,  but  he  can  not  feel  the  period 
and  vitalize  it.  His  study  of  Lincoln  should  be  read  in  all 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      357 

schools  for  it  is  a  fine  interpretation  of  the  great  President. 
In  it  we  are  permitted  to  share  the  acute  loneliness  of  those  who 
bear  the  weight  of  responsibility  for  the  lives  of  nations.  But 
keen  and  original  as  it  is,  this  poem  about  Lincoln  is  not  Mr. 
Robinson's  greatest.  His  masterpiece  is  a  characterization 
of  Shakespeare,  probably  the  best  that  has  ever  been  made. 
It  is  a  brilliant  feat  in  constructive  imagining,  and  is  called 
"Ben  Jonson  Entertains  a  Man  from  Stratford."  Voltaire 
once  said  that  if  there  were  no  God  it  would  be  necessary  for 
man  to  invent  one.  If  there  were  no  Shakespeare,  surely  all 
persons  of  English  speech  would  demand  that  a  Shakespeare  be 
invented.  Mr.  Robinson  has  created  a  Shakespeare,  a  poet's 
Shakespeare. 

Our  other  American  master  of  the  art  of  characterization  is 
Edgar  Lee  Masters.  For  years  he  has  been  storing  up  impres- 
sions of  American  life  as  he  has  found  it  in  big  cities,  in  small 
towns,  in  the  country.  He  has  been  a  lawyer,  working  among 
the  people,  aware  of  their  secret  sympathies,  vulgarities,  de- 
pravities, heroisms  and  kindnesses.  A  great  river  is  the  only 
adequate  symbol  for  the  genius  of  Mr.  Masters. 

Let  us  imagine  a  river  whose  waters  come  from  many  sources, 
over  shale  and  limestone  and  granite  gravel,  through  forests  of 
maple  and  birch  and  cedar  and  pine.  Let  us  imagine  that  bright 
quartz  pebbles  and  fine  dust,  maple  keys,  gay  flowers,  and  frisky 
insects  have  fallen  into  it.  Let  us  suppose  that  it  passes  cities 
and  towns,  also,  where  all  manner  of  rubbish  has  been  cast  into 
it,  all  that  has  been  sour,  broken,  and  dirty.  And  let  us  imagine 
that  below  the  forests  and  below  the  towers  a  great  dam  was 
built,  so  that  the  river  might  not  find  an  outlet  and  flow  peace- 
ably to  the  sea,  but  was  forced  to  rise  slowly  against  the  dam, 
holding  all  things  together  in  its  depths,  and  never,  for  a  long 
time,  able  to  pour  itself  over  the  top.  Then  at  last  came  a  pro- 
digious freshet,  or  some  other  climax  that  swelled  the  flood  of 
the  waters.  And  they  broke  the  dam,  and  with  tremendous 
roaring  pounded  their  way  through  to  the  ocean,  carrying  with 
them  what  they  had  held  in  the  depths.  .  .  . 


358  NEW  VOICES 

Life  has  cast  in  upon  the  consciousness  of  Mr.  Masters  many 
things  as  gay  as  maple  keys  and  wild  flowers,  many  other  things 
as  sour  and  sordid  as  the  refuse  of  the  villages.  And  yet,  for 
many  years,  he,  who  was  destined  to  become  a  master-maker 
of  American  literature,  gave  us  no  account  of  any  of  these  things. 
Perhaps  he  lacked  the  artistic  idea,  the  medium  of  craftsman- 
ship. Or  perhaps  the  conscious  intellect,  well  trained  in  the 
profession  of  law,  did  not  sufficiently  relax  in  the  vigilance  which 
guards,  and  sometimes  restrains  the  un-self-conscious,  quickly 
working,  intuitive  and  creative  intellect  of  the  poet. 

However  this  may  be,  it  was  not  until  the  publication  of  "The 
Spoon  River  Anthology"  in  1914-1915,  that  the  silence  of  in- 
effectual expression  was  broken  for  Mr.  Masters,  as  a  dam 
might  be  broken  by  the  weight  of  a  river.  An  overflow  of  poetic 
narrative  was  let  loose  upon  the  world.  And  from  that  time  to 
this  the  fame  of  "Spoon  River"  has  been  growing.  It  has  gone 
out  of  Illinois,  across  the  continent,  around  the  world.  And  when 
his  other  books  have  been  forgotten,  it  is  more  than  likely  that 
this  collection  of  terse  epitaphs  will  be  remembered. 

"The  Spoon  River  Anthology"  has  been  called  the  greatest 
American  book  since  the  days  of  Columbus  and  it  has  been 
called  the  "apotheosis  of  village  gossip."  It  is  very  much  to  be 
doubted  whether  any  one  book  can  rightly  be  called  "the  great- 
est." Any  such  decision  made  in  this  generation  would  be  pre- 
mature, to  say  the  least.  It  is  wisest  to  leave  the  bestowal  of 
superlatives  to  Time.  Nor  is  this  a  book  of  gossip.  For  gossip 
is  external  to  the  persons  discussed.  And  the  ladies  of  Spoon 
River,  who  would  have  taken  delight  in  the  knowledge  that 
Deacon  Taylor  drank  "spiritus  f rumen ti"  daily,  could  never 
have  guessed  the  spiritual  realities  told  in  this  book. 

But  one  thing  the  book  assuredly  is,  on  every  page  and  in 
every  line.  It  is  interesting.  Life  is  rank  and  rich  in  it.  The 
acrid  odor  of  weeds  matted  down  and  crushed  mingles  with 
the  fragrance  of  flowers,  as  a  rule  overcoming  the  fragrance. 
But  the  flowers  are  there  too,  growing  among  the  weeds,  as  they 
do  in  the  open  field,  in  the  open  world,  not  segregated  and  pro- 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      359 

tected  as  they  would  be  in  hot  houses.  And  they  would  be  per- 
sons of  "queasy  stomach,"  as  Stevenson  says,  who,  having  be- 
gun to  read  this  book,  would  not  go  on  to  the  end. 

We  should  not  be  too  quick  to  condemn  the  ugliness  in  this 
book.  We  must  not  be  cowardly  before  any  virile  presentation  of 
American  life  in  all  its  weird  chiaroscuro  of  ugliness  and  beauty, 
in  its  clashing  battle  of  the  forces  of  body  and  soul.  How  can 
we  heal  the  diseases  of  civilization  if  we  are  unwilling  to  dis- 
cover them?  Readers  who  are  disgusted  with  the  hypocrisies 
of  Editor  Whedon,  the  weaknesses  of  Doctor  Meyers,  the  bru- 
talities of  "Butch"  Weldy,  the  matrimonial  adventures  of 
Dora  Williams,  the  extra-matrimonial  adventures  of  less  pru- 
dent ladies,  the  murders,  suicides  and  revolting  animalism  of 
many  of  these  people,  may  well  be  disgusted  with  the  things 
themselves — but  why  be  disgusted  with  the  book?  Is  it  not 
a  mistake  to  demand  that  all  stories  be  pretty  and  pleasant? 
The  reader  may  well  ask  himself  whether  these  things  happen  in 
this  way  in  his  own  home  town,  and  what  is  to  be  done  about  it, 
before  he  turns  away  from  this  book.  Such  works  of  realism 
are  like  statements  of  symptoms  leading  to  a  diagnosis.  It  is 
for  the  public  to  find  the  cure. 

But  it  would  be  most  unfair  to  Mr.  Masters  to  give  the  im- 
pression that  all  of  his  characters  are  coarse,  mean,  cruel;  that 
all  of  the  realism  of  the  book  is  sordid  and  squalid.  At  least 
twenty-five  of  these  neighbors  living  near  Spoon  River  and  de- 
scribed in  the  famous  Anthology,  must  have  lived  happy  lives, 
full  of  hearty  labor,  honest  affections,  intellectual  growth  and 
spiritual  aspiration.  And  Mr.  Masters  is  as  just  and  accurate 
in  his  analysis  of  personality  in  men  and  women  of  the  kind  we 
caU  "good"  as  in  the  people  of  the  kind  we  caU  "bad."  His 
good  people  are  very  real  and  no  two  of  them  are  alike.  Lu- 
cinda  Matlock  is  a  woman  venerable  and  epic.  She  is  the 
ample  and  generous  peasant  woman,  the  strength  of  the  race 
from  generation  to  generation,  simple  and  maternal,  a  constant 
lover,  rejoicing  in  the  hills  and  valleys.  Lydia  Humphrey  is 
a  little  gray  spinster  for  whom  the  village  church  is  "the  vision, 


360  NEW  VOICES 

vision,  vision  of  the  poets  democratized."    Anne  Rutledge  is 
the  "beloved  in  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln."     She  says, 

"Bloom  forever,  O  Republic, 
From  the  dust  of  my  bosom!" 

Sometimes  in  poems  like  these  the  power  of  beautiful  thought 
and  fine  emotion  seizes  upon  the  poet  and  compels  him  to  create 
that  which  is  nojt  "less  than  verse"  and  which  is,  indeed,  more 
than  prose —  pure  poetry.  This  happens  in  the  story  of  Isaiah 
Beethoven,  who  was  taken  down  to  the  river  to  watch  it  in  the 
days  when  he  was  waiting  for  death.  Just  before  the  end  he 
says: 

"The  soul  of  the  river  had  entered  my  soul, 
And  the  gathered  power  of  my  soul  was  moving 
So  swiftly  it  seemed  to  be  at  rest 
Under  cities  of  cloud  and  under 
Spheres  of  silver  and  changing  worlds — • 
Until  I  saw  a  flash  of  trumpets 
Above  the  battlements  over  Time." 

Over  and  above  the  great  qualities  of  human  interest  and  ex- 
cellent characterization,  the  "Spoon  River  Anthology"  has  the 
quality  of  marvellous  conciseness.  In  it  we  find  an  epic  in  a 
page,  a  ballad  in  a  paragraph,  a  lyric  in  a  single  line,  over  and 
over  again. 

"Toward  The  Gulf,"  Mr.  Masters'  latest  book,  contains  the 
best  work  that  he  has  done  since  he  became  famous.  It  is  a 
book  worthy  of  consideration,  a  book  for  thinkers.  But  it  is 
not  likely  to  prove  popular.  Most  of  the  poems  in  it  lack  the 
clarity,  simplicity  and  brevity  of  the  "Spoon  River"  narratives. 
Many  lines  are  turgid  with  thought.  Moreover,  Mr.  Masters 
is  preoccupied  with  questions  of  sex,  heredity,  disease  and  ab- 
normal psychology  that  can  only  be  understood  by  persons  hav- 
ing a  considerable  knowledge  of  modern  science.  These  poems 
will  be  obscure  and  valueless  and  even  quite  unpoetic  for  many 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      361 

people.  They  are  very  long.  They  are  intellectual  narratives 
of  intellectual  events.  All  of  this  applies  to  a  large  part  of  what 
is  in  the  book. 

But  there  are  a  few  exceUent  things  in  "Toward  The  Gulf." 
No  one  who  enjoys  contemporary  poetry  and  who  has  found 
pleasure  in  other  work  by  Mr.  Masters  should  miss  the  odd 
whimsy  of  the  character,  Hosea  Job,  in  the  poem  called  "  Sir 
Galahad."  Hosea  Job  is  delightful,  inimitable.  And  in  this 
poem  is  an  exceedingly  vivid  bit  of  description. 

"Great  hills  that  stood  together  like  the  backs 

Of  elephants  in  a  herd,  where  boulders  lay 

As  thick  as  hail  in  places.    Ruined  pines 

Stood  like  burnt  matches.    There  was  one  which  stuck 

Against  a  single  cloud  so  white  it  seemed 

A  bursted  bale  of  cotton." 

Nor  should  anyone  miss  the  quaint  and  lovable  legend  of 
Johnny  Appleseed,  who  went  west  ahead  of  the  pioneers, 
planting  apple  trees,  "  For  children  to  come  who  will  gather  and 
eat  hereafter." 

"And  it's  every  bit  the  truth,  said  Peter  Van  Zylen. 
So  many  things  love  an  apple  as  well  as  ourselves. 
A  man  must  fight  for  the  thing  he  loves,  to  possess  it: 
Apples,  freedom,  heaven,  said  Peter  Van  Zylen." 


It  is  a  strange  fact  that  we  can  sometimes  learn  more  about 
an  imagined  and  fictional  personality  by  reading  a  poem  like 
"Lucinda  Matlock,"  "Martin,"  "Miss  Loo,"  or  "Flammonde" 
than  we  can  learn  about  a  real  person  by  daily  meetings  and 
associations.  And  it  is  not  only  possible  to  learn  much  about 
mankind  in  the  poems  of  skilled  poets,  but  it  is  possible,  also, 
to  feel,  through  the  poet,  a  sympathy  with  persons  whom  we 
should  recognize  only  as  aliens  in  our  actual  experience.  Men 
and  women  who  might  repel  us  if  we  met  them  face  to  face,  can 
be  quietly  understood  in  a  poem.  In  this  way  our  sympathies 


362  NEW  VOICES 

are  extended  and  ennobled.   Life  is  made  friendly  and  fra- 
ternal. 

It  is  good  to  reach  out  into  the  lives  of  the  poor  through  Mr. 
Gibson,  into  the  lives  of  sailors  and  outcasts  through  Mr.  Mase- 
field,  into  the  lives  of  quaint  and  charming  persons  through  Mr. 
Kilmer  and  Mr.  de  la  Mare,  into  the  lives  of  unique  persons 
through  Mr.  Robinson.  And  it  is  very  good  indeed  to  share  the 
emotions  of  the  newly  arrived  Italian  immigrant  with  that  gentle 
poet  Thomas  Augustine  Daly.  Who  that  has  read  it  will  ever 
forget  that  tenderly  beautiful  lyric,  "Da  Leetla  Boy"  ? 

MARTIN 

When  I  am  tired  of  earnest  men, 

Intense  and  keen  and  sharp  and  clever, 
Pursuing  fame  with  brush  or  pen 

Or  counting  metal  disks  forever, 
Then  from  the  halls  of  shadowland 

Beyond  the  trackless  purple  sea 
Old  Martin's  ghost  comes  back  to  stand 

Beside  my  desk  and  talk  to  me. 

Still  on  his  delicate  pale  face 

A  quizzical  thin  smile  is  showing, 
His  cheeks  are  wrinkled  like  fine  lace, 

His  kind  blue  eyes  are  gay  and  glowing. 
He  wears  a  brilliant-hued  cravat, 

A  suit  to  match  his  soft  gray  hair, 
A  rakish  stick,  a  knowing  hat, 

A  manner  blithe  and  debonair. 

How  good,  that  he  who  always  knew 

That  being  lovely  was  a  duty, 
Should  have  gold  halls  to  wander  through 

And  should  himself  inhabit  beauty. 
How  like  his  old  unselfish  way 

To  leave  those  halls  of  splendid  mirth 
And  comfort  those  condemned  to  stay 

Upon  the  bleak  and  sombre  earth. 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       363 

Some  people  ask :  What  cruel  chance 

Made  Martin's  life  so  sad  a  story? 
Martin?    Why,  he  exhaled  romance 

And  wore  an  overcoat  of  glory. 
A  fleck  of  sunlight  in  the  street, 

A  horse,  a  book,  a  girl  who  smiled, — 
Such  visions  made  each  moment  sweet 

For  this  receptive,  ancient  child. 

Because  it  was  old  Martin's  lot 

To  be,  not  make,  a  decoration, 
Shall  we  then  scorn  him,  having  not 

His  genius  of  appreciation? 
Rich  joy  and  love  he  got  and  gave; 

His  heart  was  merry  as  his  dress. 
Pile  laurel  wreaths  upon  his  grave 

Who  did  not  gain,  but  was,  success. 

Joyce  Kilmer 


MISS  LOO 

When  thin-strewn  memory  I  look  through, 

I  see  most  clearly  poor  Miss  Loo, 

Her  tabby  cat,  her  cage  of  birds, 

Her  nose,  her  hair — her  muffled  words, 

And  how  she'd  open  her  green  eyes, 

As  if  in  some  immense  surprise, 

Whenever  as  we  sat  at  tea 

She  made  some  small  remark  to  me. 

It's  always  drowsy  summer  when 

From  out  the  past  she  comes  again; 

The  westering  sunshine  in  a  pool 

Floats  in  her  parlor  still  and  cool; 

While  the  slim  bird  its  lean  wire  shakes, 

As  into  piercing  song  it  breaks; 

Till  Peter's  pale-green  eyes  ajar 

Dream,  wake;  wake,  dream,  in  one  brief  bar. 


364  NEW  VOICES 

And  I  am  sitting,  dull  and  shy, 
And  she  with  gaze  of  vacancy, 
And  large  hands  folded  on  the  tray, 
Musing  the  afternoon  away; 
Her  satin  bosom  heaving  slow 
With  sighs  that  softly  ebb  and  flow, 
And  her  plain  face  in  such  dismay, 
It  seems  unkind  to  look  her  way: 
Until  all  cheerful  back  will  come 
Her  cheerful  gleaming  spirit  home: 
And  one  would  think  that  poor  Miss  Loo 
Asked  nothing  else,  if  she  had  you. 

Walter  de  la  Mare 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  WINTER  NIGHT 

All  out  of  doors  looked  darkly  in  at  him 

Through  the  thin  frost,  almost  in  separate  stars, 

That  gathers  on  the  pane  in  empty  rooms. 

What  kept  his  eyes  from  giving  back  the  gaze 

Was  the  lamp  tilted  near  them  in  his  hand. 

What  kept  him  from  remembering  what  it  was 

That  brought  him  to  that  creaking  room  was  age. 

He  stood  with  barrels  round  him — at  a  loss. 

And  having  scared  the  cellar  under  him 

In  clomping  there,  he  scared  it  once  again 

In  clomping  off; — and  scared  the  outer  night, 

Which  has  its  sounds,  familiar,  like  the  roar 

Of  trees  and  crack  of  branches,  common  things, 

But  nothing  so  like  beating  on  a  box. 

A  light  he  was  to  no  one  but  himself 

Where  now  he  sat,  concerned  with  he  knew  what, 

A  quiet  light,  and  then  not  even  that. 

He  consigned  to  the  moon,  such  as  she  was, 

So  late-arising,  to  the  broken  moon 

As  better  than  the  sun  in  any  case 

For  such  a  charge,  his  snow  upon  the  roof, 

His  icicles  along  the  wall  to  keep; 

And  slept.    The  log  that  shifted  with  a  jolt 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      365 

Once  in  the  stove,  disturbed  him  and  he  shifted, 
And  eased  his  heavy  breathing,  but  still  slept. 
One  aged  man — one  man — can't  keep  a  house, 
A  farm,  a  countryside,  or  if  he  can, 
It's  thus  he  does  it  of  a  winter  night. 

Robert  Frost 

RICHARD   CORY* 

Whenever  Richard  Cory  went  down  town, 
We  people  on  the  pavement  looked  at  him: 

He  was  a  gentleman  from  sole  to  crown, 
Clean  favored,  and  imperially  shin. 

And  he  was  always  quietly  arrayed, 
And  he  was  always  human  when  he  talked; 

But  still  he  fluttered  pulses  when  he  said, 
"  Good-morning,"  and  he  glittered  when  he  walked. 

And  he  was  rich — yes,  richer  than  a  king, 

And  admirably  schooled  in  every  grace: 
In  fine,  we  thought  that  he  was  everything 

To  make  us  wish  that  we  were  hi  his  place. 

So  on  we  worked,  and  waited  for  the  light, 
And  went  without  the  meat,  and  cursed  the  bread; 

And  Richard  Cory,  one  calm  summer  night, 
Went  home  and  put  a  bullet  through  his  head. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


MINIVER  CHEEVY  f 

Miniver  Cheevy,  child  of  scorn, 

Grew  lean  while  he  assailed  the  seasons; 

He  wept  that  he  was  ever  born, 
And  he  had  reasons. 

*"  Richard  Cory"  by  permission  from  The  Children  of  the  Night,  published  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons;  copyright,  1896  and  1897  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson. 

f  "  Miniver  Cheevy  "  is  reproduced  by  permission  from  The  Town  Down  the  River,  published 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons;  copyright,  1910,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


366  NEW  VOICES 

Miniver  loved  the  days  of  old 

When  swords  were  bright  and  steeds  were  prancing; 
The  vision  of  a  warrior  bold 

Would  set  him  dancing. 

Miniver  sighed  for  what  was  not, 

And  dreamed,  and  rested  from  his  labors; 

He  dreamed  of  Thebes  and  Camelot, 
And  Priam's  neighbors. 

Miniver  mourned  the  ripe  renown 

That  made  so  many  a  name  so  fragrant; 

He  mourned  Romance,  now  on  the  town, 
And  Art,  a  vagrant. 

Miniver  loved  the  Medici, 

Albeit  he  had  never  seen  one; 
He  would  have  sinned  incessantly 

Could  he  have  been  one. 

Miniver  cursed  the  commonplace 

And  eyed  a  khaki  suit  with  loathing; 
He  missed  the  mediaeval  grace 

Of  iron  clothing. 

Miniver  scorned  the  gold  he  sought, 

But  sore  annoyed  was  he  without  it; 
Miniver  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought, 

And  thought  about  it. 

Miniver  Cheevy,  born  too  late, 

Scratched  his  head  and  kept  on  thinking; 

Miniver  coughed,  and  called  it  fate, 
And  kept  on  drinking. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


FLAMMONDE 

The  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where, 
With  firm  address  and  foreign  air, 
With  news  of  nations  in  his  talk 
And  something  royal  in  his  walk, 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      367 

With  glint  of  iron  in  his  eyes, 
But  never  doubt,  nor  yet  surprise, 
Appeared,  and  stayed,  and  held  his  head 
As  one  by  kings  accredited. 

Erect,  with  his  alert  repose 
About  him,  and  about  his  clothes, 
He  pictured  all  tradition  hears 
Of  what  we  owe  to  fifty  years. 
His  cleansing  heritage  of  taste 
Paraded  neither  want  nor  waste; 
And  what  he  needed  for  his  fee 
To  live,  he  borrowed  graciously. 

He  never  told  us  what  he  was, 
Or  what  mischance,  or  other  cause, 
Had  banished  him  from  better  days 
To  play  the  Prince  of  Castaways. 
Meanwhile  he  played  surpassing  well 
A  part,  for  most,  unplayable; 
In  fine,  one  pauses,  half  afraid 
To  say  for  certain  that  he  played. 

For  that,  one  may  as  well  forego 
Conviction  as  to  yes  or  no; 
Nor  can  I  say  just  how  intense 
Would  then  have  been  the  difference 
To  several,  who,  having  striven 
In  vain  to  get  what  he  was  given, 
Would  see  the  stranger  taken  on 
By  friends  not  easy  to  be  won. 

Moreover,  many  a  malcontent 
He  soothed  and  found  munificent; 
His  courtesy  beguiled  and  foiled 
Suspicion  that  his  years  were  soiled; 
His  mien  distinguished  any  crowd, 
His  credit  strengthened  when  he  bowed; 
And  women,  young  and  old,  were  fond 
Of  looking  at  the  man  Flammonde. 


368  NEW  VOICES 

There  was  a  woman  in  our  town 
On  whom  the  fashion  was  to  frown; 
But  while  our  talk  renewed  the  tinge 
Of  a  long-faded  scarlet  fringe, 
The  man  Flammonde  saw  none  of  that, 
But  what  he  saw  we  wondered  at — 
That  none  of  us,  in  her  distress 
Could  hide  or  find  our  littleness. 

There  was  a  boy  that  all  agreed 

Had  shut  within  him  the  rare  seed 

Of  learning.    We  could  understand, 

But  none  of  us  could  lift  a  hand. 

The  man  Flammonde  appraised  the  youth, 

And  told  a  few  of  us  the  truth; 

And  thereby,  for  a  little  gold, 

A  flowered  future  was  unrolled. 

There  were  two  citizens  who  fought 
For  years  and  years,  and  over  nought; 
They  made  life  awkward  for  their  friends, 
And  shortened  their  own  dividends. 
The  man  Flammonde  said  what  was  wrong 
Should  be  made  right;  nor  was  it  long 
Before  they  were  again  in  line, 
And  had  each  other  in  to  dine. 

And  these  I  mention  are  but  four 
Of  many  out  of  many  more. 
So  much  for  them.    But  what  of  him — 
So  firm  in  every  look  and  limb? 
What  small  satanic  sort  of  kink 
Was  in  his  brain?    What  broken  link 
Withheld  him  from  the  destinies 
That  came  so  near  to  being  his? 

What  was  he,  when  we  came  to  sift 
His  meaning,  and  to  note  the  drift 
Of  incommunicable  ways 
That  make  us  ponder  while  we  praise? 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      369 

Why  was  it  that  his  charm  revealed 
Somehow  the  surface  of  a  shield? 
What  was  it  that  we  never  caught? 
What  was  he,  and  what  was  he  not? 

How  much  it  was  of  him  we  met 
We  cannot  ever  know;  nor  yet 
Shall  all  he  gave  us  quite  atone 
For  what  was  his,  and  his  alone; 
Nor  need  we  now,  since  he  knew  best, 
Nourish  an  ethical  unrest: 
Rarely  at  once  will  nature  give 
The  power  to  be  Flammonde  and  live. 

We  cannot  know  how  much  we  learn 
From  those  who  never  will  return, 
Until  a  flash  of  unforeseen 
Remembrance  falls  on  what  has  been. 
We've  each  a  darkening  hill  to  climb; 
And  this  is  why,  from  time  to  time 
In  Tilbury  Town,  we  look  beyond 
Horizons  for  the  man  Flammonde. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  TREE 

Blackbird,  blackbird  in  the  cage, 
There's  something  wrong  to-night. 
Far  off  the  sheriff's  footfall  dies, 
The  minutes  crawl  like  last  year's  flies 
Between  the  bars,  and  like  an  age 
The  hours  are  long  to-night. 

The  sky  is  like  a  heavy  lid 

Out  here  beyond  the  door  to-night. 

What's  that?    A  mutter  down  the  street. 

What's  that?    The  sound  of  yells  and  feet. 

For  what  you  didn't  do  or  did 

You'll  pay  the  score  to-night. 


370  NEW  VOICES 

No  use  to  reek  with  reddened  sweat, 
No  use  to  whimper  and  to  sweat. 
They've  got  the  rope;  they've  got  the  guns> 
They've  got  the  courage  and  the  guns; 
An  that's  the  reason  why  to-night 
No  use  to  ask  them  any  more. 
They'll  fire  the  answer  through  the  door — 
You're  out  to  die  to-night. 

There  where  the  lonely  cross-road  lies, 
There  is  no  place  to  make  replies; 
But  silence,  inch  by  inch,  is  there, 
And  the  right  limb  for  a  lynch  is  there; 
And  a  lean  daw  waits  for  both  your  eyes, 
Blackbird. 

Perhaps  you'll  meet  again  some  place. 
Look  for  the  mask  upon  the  face; 
That's  the  way  you'll  know  them  there — 
A  white  mask  to  hide  the  face. 
And  you  can  halt  and  show  them  there 
The  things  that  they  are  deaf  to  now, 
And  they  can  tell  you  what  they  meant — 
To  wash  the  blood  with  blood.    But  how 
If  you  are  innocent? 

Blackbird  singer,  blackbird  mute, 

They  choked  the  seed  you  might  have  found. 

Out  of  a  thorny  field  you  go — 

For  you  it  may  be  better  so — 

And  leave  the  sowers  of  the  ground 

To  eat  the  harvest  of  the  fruit, 

Blackbird. 

Ridgely  Torrence 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY      371 

MERCHANTS  FROM  CATHAY 

Their  heels  slapped  their  bumping  mules;  their  fat     How  that  They 

chaps  glowed. 

Glory  unto  Mary,  each  seemed  to  wear  a  crown! 
Like  sunset  their  robes  were  on  the  wide,  white  road: 
So  we  saw  those  mad  merchants  come  dusting  into 
town! 

Two  paunchy  beasts  they  rode  on  and  two  they  drove     Of  their  Beasts, 

before. 
May  the  Saints  all  help  us,  the  tiger-stripes  they 

had! 
And  the  panniers  upon  them  swelled  full  of  stuffs  and 

ore! 
The  square  buzzed  and  jostled  at  a  sight  so  mad. 

They  bawled  in  their  beards,  and  their  turbans  they     And  their  Boast, 

wried. 
They  stopped  by  the  stalls  with  curvetting  and 

clatter. 
As  bronze  as   the  bracken  their  necks  and  faces 

dyed— 

And  a  stave  they  sat  singing,  to  tell  us  of  the 
matter. 

"For  your  silks,  to  Sugarmago!  For  your  dyes,  to     With  its  Burthen 

Isfahan! 

Weird  fruits  from  the  Isle  o>  Lamaree! 
But  for  magic  merchandise, 
For  treasure-trove  and  spice, 

Here's  a  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan, 
The  King  of  all  the  Kings  across  the  sea! 

"Here's  a  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan:        And  chorus. 
For  we  won  through  the  deserts  to  his  sunset  barbican, 
And  the  mountains  of  his  palace  no  Titan's  reach  may 

span 
Where  he  wields  his  seignorie! 


372 


NEW  VOICES 


A  first  Stave  Fear-    Red-as-blood  skins  of  Panthers,  so  bright  against  the 

some, 

sun 
On  the  walls  of  the  halls  where  his  pillared  state  is 

set 

They  daze  with  a  blaze  no  man  may  look  upon! 
And  with  conduits  of  beverage  those  floors  run  wet! 

And  a  second  Right  "His  wives  stiff  with  riches,  they  sit  before  him  there. 
Bird  and  beast  at  his  feast  make  song  and  clapping 

cheer. 

And  jugglers  and  enchanters,  all  walking  on  the  air, 
Make  fall  eclipse  and  thunder — make  moons  and 
suns  appear! 

And  a  third  Which  "Once  the  Chan,  by  his  enemies  sore-prest,  and  sorely 

is  a  Laughable 

Thing  spent, 

Lay,  so  they  say,  in  a  thicket  'neath  a  tree 
Where  the  howl  of  an  owl  vexed  his  foes  from  their 

intent: 
Then  that  fowl  for  a  holy  bird  of  reverence  made  he! 


Of  the  Chan's 
Hunting. 


"And  when  he  will  a-hunting  go,  four  elephants  of 
white 

Draw  his  wheeling  dais  of  lignum  aloes  made; 
And  marquises  and  admirals  and  barons  of  delight 

All  courier  his  chariot,  in  orfrayes  arrayed! 


We  gape  to  Hear 
them  end 


"A  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan! 
Pastmasters  of  disasters,  our  desert  caravan 
Won  through  all  peril  to  his  sunset  barbican, 

Where  he  wields  his  seignoriel 
And  crowns  he  gave  us!    We  end  where  we  began. 
A  catch  and  a  carol  to  the  great,  grand  Chan, 
The  King  of  all  the  Kings  across  the  sea!  " 


And  are  in  Terror,   Those    mad,    antic    Merchants!  .  .  .  Their    striped 

beasts  did  beat 

The  market-square  suddenly  with  hooves  of  beaten 
gold! 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       373 

fhe  ground  yawned  gaping  and  flamed  beneath  our 

feet! 

They  plunged  to  Pits  Abysmal  with  their  wealth 
untold! 

Vnd  some  say  the  Chan  himself  in  anger  dealt  the  And  dread  it  is 

stroke — 

?or  sharing  of  his  secrets  with  silly,  common  folk: 
3ut  Holy,  Blessed  Mary,  preserve  us  as  you  may 
^est  once  more  those  mad  Merchants  come  chanting 

from  Cathay! 

William  Rose  Benti 


ISAIAH  BEETHOVEN 

They  told  me  I  had  three  months  to  live, 

So  I  crept  to  Bernadotte, 

And  sat  by  the  mill  for  hours  and  hours 

Where  the  gathered  waters  deeply  moving 

Seemed  not  to  move: 

O  world,  that's  you! 

You  are  but  a  widened  place  in  the  river 

Where  Life  looks  down  and  we  rejoice  for  her 

Mirrored  in  us,  and  so  we  dream 

And  turn  away,  but  when  again 

We  look  for  the  face,  behold  the  low-lands 

And  blasted  cotton-wood  trees  where  we  empty 

Into  the  larger  stream! 

But  here  by  the  mill  the  castled  clouds 

Mocked  themselves  in  the  dizzy  water; 

And  over  its  agate  floor  at  night 

The  flame  of  the  moon  ran  under  my  eyes 

Amid  a  forest  stillness  broken 

By  a  flute  in  a  hut  on  the  hill. 

At  last  when  I  came  to  lie  in  bed 

Weak  and  in  pain,  with  the  dreams  about  me, 

The  soul  of  the  river  had  entered  my  soul, 

And  the  gathered  power  of  my  soul  was  moving 

So  swiftly  it  seemed  to  be  at  rest 


374  NEW  VOICES 

Under  cities  of  cloud  and  under 
Spheres  of  silver  and  changing  worlds — 
Until  I  saw  a  flash  of  trumpets 
Above  the  battlements  over  Time! 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 

ANNE  RUTLEDGE 

Out  of  me  unworthy  and  unknown 

The  vibrations  of  deathless  music; 

"With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all." 

Out  of  me  the  forgiveness  of  millions  toward  millions, 

And  the  beneficent  face  of  a  nation 

Shining  with  justice  and  truth. 

I  am  Anne  Rutledge  who  sleep  beneath  these  weeds, 

Beloved  in  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 

Wedded  to  him,  not  through  union, 

But  through  separation. 

Bloom  forever,  O  Republic, 

From  the  dust  of  my  bosom! 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 

LUCINDA  MATLOCK 

I  went  to  the  dances  at  Chandlerville, 

And  played  snap-out  at  Winchester. 

One  time  we  changed  partners, 

Driving  home  in  the  moonlight  of  middle  June, 

And  then  I  found  Davis. 

We  were  married  and  lived  together  for  seventy  years, 

Enjoying,  working,  raising  the  twelve  children, 

Eight  of  whom  we  lost 

Ere  I  had  reached  the  age  of  sixty. 

I  spun,  I  wove,  I  kept  the  house,  I  nursed  the  sick, 

I  made  the  garden,  and  for  holiday 

Rambled  over  the  fields  where  sang  the  larks, 

And  by  Spoon  River  gathering  many  a  shell, 

And  many  a  flower  and  medicinal  weed — 

Shouting  to  the  wooded  hills,  singing  to  the  green  valleys. 

At  ninety-six  I  had  lived  enough,  that  is  all, 


PERSONALITY  IN  CONTEMPORARY  POETRY       375 

And  passed  to  a  sweet  repose. 

What  is  this  I  hear  of  sorrow  and  weariness, 

Anger,  discontent  and  drooping  hopes? 

Degenerate  sons  and  daughters, 

Life  is  too  strong  for  you — 

It  takes  lif e  to  love  Life. 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 


DA  LEETLA  BOY* 

Da  spreeng  ees  com'!  but  oh,  da  joy 

Eet  ees  too  late! 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy, 

He  no  could  wait. 

I  no  can  count  how  manny  week, 
How  manny  day,  dat  he  ees  seeck; 
How  manny  night  I  sect  an'  hold 
Da  leetla  hand  dat  was  so  cold. 
He  was  so  patience,  oh,  so  sweet! 
Eet  hurts  my  throat  for  theenk  of  eet; 
An'  all  he  evra  ask  ees  w'en 
Ees  gona  com'  da  spreeng  agen. 
Wan  day,  wan  brighta  sunny  day, 
He  see,  across  da  alleyway, 
Da  leetla  girl  dat's  livin'  dere 
Ees  raise  her  window  for  da  air, 
An'  put  outside  a  leetla  pot 
Of — w'at-you-call? — forgat-me-not. 
So  smalla  flower,  so  leetla  theeng! 
But  steel  eet  mak'  hees  hearta  seeng: 
"Oh,  now,  at  las',  ees  com'  da  spreeng! 
Da  leetla  plant  ees  glad  for  know 
Da  sun  ees  com'  for  mak '  eet  grow. 
So,  too,  I  am  grow  warm  and  strong." 
So  lika  dat  he  seeng  hees  song. 
But,  Ah!  da  night  com'  down  an*  den 
Da  weenter  ees  sneak  back  agen, 

*  From  Carmina  by  T.  A.  Daly.     Copyright,  1909,  by  John  Lane  Company. 


376  NEW  VOICES 

An'  een  da  alley  all  da  night 

Ees  fall  da  snow,  so  cold,  so  white, 

An'  cover  up  da  leetla  pot 

Of — wa't-you-call? — forgat-me-not. 

All  night  da  leetla  hand  I  hold 

Eees  grow  so  cold,  so  cold,  so  cold! 

Da  spreeng  ees  com';  but  oh,  da  joy 

Eet  ees  too  late! 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy, 

He  no  could  wait. 

Thomas  Augustine  Daly 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY 

To  those  who  believe  that  children  and  poetry  are  the  loveliest 
things  in  the  world  it  seems  natural  that  they  should  belong  to- 
gether. Yet  we  are  often  told  that  children  do  not  like  poetry. 
The  truth  of  the  matter  probably  is  that  they  do  not  like  what  is 
frequently  offered  to  them  under  the  name  of  poetry,  or  that 
they  do  not  like  the  way  poetry  is  offered.  For  this  they  are  not 
to  blame.  For,  if  we  stop  to  consider  the  nature  of  children,  and 
the  things  which  they  thoroughly  enjoy,  we  shall  realize  that 
very  often  children  are  not  interested  in  poetry  because  we 
have  made  interest  in  it  impossible  for  them. 

We  do  not  need  to  be  psychologists  to  know  what  things  give 
children  pleasure.  We  have  all  been  children.  We  have  all 
watched  children  at  play.  Unless  we  are  just  seventeen  years 
old  and  have  forgotten  what  childhood  is  like,  we  know  that 
children  love  play  better  than  anything  else.  They  love  vigorous 
physical  play — tag,  hide-an-seek,  pom-pom-pull-away,  pussy- 
in-the-corner.  And  they  love  imaginative  play,  the  perennially 
interesting  games  of  "school,"  "house,"  "pirates,"  "hospital," 
and  "dress-up-and-pretend."  And  before  any  game  is  begun 
they  have  a  little  ritual  of  choice  which  they  call  "counting  out" 
and  which  determines  who  shall  be  the  leader  or  that  mysterious 
person  called  "it." 

Now  in  all  of  these  activities  children  are  very  close  to  poetry. 
Tag  is  a  very  primitive  game  and  seldom  played  for  long  at  a 
tune.  It  is  a  game  to  play  on  your  way  home  from  school,  not  a 
game  for  a  whole  Saturday  morning.  But  the  more  elaborate 
"running  games"  are  often  accompanied,  as  we  know,  by  little 
"singsong"  calls  that  might  be  called  "refrains"  if  we  wanted 
to  be  solemn  about  it.  In  playing  "pom-pom"  one  side  taunts 
the  other,  from  tune  to  time,  with  this  little  bit  of  rhythmical 
speech. 

377 


378  NEW  VOICES 

"Pom,  pom,  pull  away, 
'F  you  don't  come  out 
We'll  pull  you  'way." 

In  still  more  elaborate  games  children  use  verses  set  to  tunes 
that  are  probably  many  generations  old,  and  these  verses  are 
said  or  sung  with  dances  or  marches,  usually  as  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  story.  In  the  game  called  "Drop  The  Hand- 
kerchief," or  "Itiskit,  Itaskit,"  the  leader  walks  around  a  circle 
of  children  chanting  the  famous  little  song: 

"Itiskit,  Itaskit, 
A  green  and  yellow  basket, 
I  wrote  a  letter  to  my  love 
And  on  the  way  I  dropped  it, 
I  dropped  it,  dropped  it," 

And  this  goes  on  until  the  singer  does  drop  the  handkerchief 
behind  another  child  who  must  pick  it  up  and  catch  the  leader 
before  he  runs  around  the  circle.  In  "Oats,  peas,  beans"  the 
children  tell  the  story  of  the  farmer  and  how  he  goes  to  house- 
keeping, and  they  imitate  him  when  he 

"  Stamps  his  foot, 
And  claps  his  hands, 
And  turns  around 
To  view  his  lands." 

In  all  games  which  are  a  part  of  our  folklore  are  all  the  ele- 
ments of  poetry;  story,  dramatization,  lyrical  expression, 
rhythm,  strongly  and  effectively  stressed,  and  rhyme.  And  chil- 
dren learn  these  games  almost  as  soon  as  they  begin  to  play 
with  other  children  and  repeat  them  again  and  again,  apparently 
with  great  pleasure.  By  their  repetition  of  the  cadences  again 
and  again  they  show  their  love  of  strong  rhythms.  By  their 
enjoyment  of  the  story,  the  imitative  action,  or  the  dramatic 
suggestion,  they  show  their  love  of  imaginative  activity.  In 
their  games,  then,  we  must  admit  that  children  enjoy,  in  a  primi- 
tive form,  the  beginnings  of  poetry.  But  we  shall  be  wise  if  we 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  379 

remember  that  they  enjoy  taking  part  in  poetry.  They  like  to 
act  the  story,  or  dance  to  the  rhythm,  or  chant  or  sing  it. 

In  their  "counting  out"  rhymes,  children  show  more  than  the 
love  of  story  and  rhyme  and  rhythm.  They  show  a  very  decided 
interest  in  the  flavors  and  sounds  of  words.  Take  one  of  the 
best  known  rhymes,  which  has  variants  in  all  parts  of  this  coun- 
try, and,  for  all  that  I  know,  in  all  parts  of  the  English  speaking 
world: 

"Onery,  ewery,  ickery,  Anne 
Filasy,  folasy,  Nicholas,  John, 
Squeeby,  squawby,  Irish  Mary, 
Stickerum,  stackerum,  buck — you're  it!" 

and  notice  the  sound  echoes — how  one  word  passes  on  part  of 
its  sound,  but  not  the  whole  of  it,  to  the  next  one.  And 
notice  also  the  delicious  comedy  of  the  combination  "  Squeeby, 
squawby."  We  do  not  know  what  they  mean,  but  if  we  have 
any  sense  of  humor,  we  know  that  they  are  funny  words.  This 
same  power  to  play  with  words,  when  used  for  beauty  and  not  for 
amusement,  produces  some  of  the  finest  lines  of  poetry  that  the 
language  can  boast. 

When  children  play  games  in  the  house  on  rainy  days,  rhythm 
and  bodily  movement  give  place,  to  a  large  extent,  to  the  exer- 
cise of  the  imagination.  "The  play's  the  thing"  for  them  then. 
They  live  in  the  story  which  they  are  making.  Sometimes,  with 
a  sure  dramatic  instinct,  they  will  enact  the  great  tales  of  the 
Bible  or  of  mythology,  if  they  have  read  any.  "Daniel-in-the- 
lion's  den,"  "Aaron-the-High-Priest"  and  "  Moses-with-his- 
arms-up"  have  become  classical  dramas  hi  certain  nurseries. 
Children  have  even  been  known  to  quarrel  about  who  should 
be  David  and  kill  Goliath,  in  spite  of  the  "counting  out"  rhyme 
which,  the  nursery  code  says,  should  settle  such  difficulties. 
And  when  such  play  is  natural  and  spontaneous,  not  that  hor- 
rible modern  substitute  called  "supervised  play,"  children  share 
an  excitement  close  akin  to  creative  lyrical  emotion.  Have 
we  forgotten  it  all,  we  who  were  children  only  yesterday? 


380  NEW  VOICES 

One  other  capacity  of  the  poet  children  possess  in  a  remark- 
able degree,  the  ability  to  name  things  for  their  flavors  and  quali- 
ties. We  laugh  when  the  baby  calls  the  ocean  "the  big  bath 
tub."  We  do  not  see,  always,  that,  in  so  doing,  he  has  made  a 
poem,  or  what  is  a  poem  for  him.  It  was  the  little  children  on 
the  Pacific  Coast  who  called  the  white  forget-me-not  the  "pop- 
corn-flower" because  its  tangle  of  blossoms  heaped  together 
in  patches  in  the  canyons,  look  like  pop-corn.  And  that,  in  its 
own  way,  was  a  poem.  In  his  admirable  book,  "The  Enjoy- 
ment of  Poetry,"  Max  Eastman  pays  tribute  to  children's 
ability  to  make  poems  of  this  kind. 

"Children  are  often  intolerant  of  poetry  in  books,"  he  says, 
"because  they  have  it  in  reality.  They  need  no  literary  as- 
sistance in  getting  acquainted  with  the  live  qualities  of  objects, 
or  endowing  them  with  their  true  names.  Their  minds  are  like 
skies  full  of  floating  imagery,  and  with  this  they  evoke  the  in- 
most essences  out  of  common  things,  discovering  kinships  in 
nature  incredible  to  science  and  intolerable  to  common  sense. 

The  toast  is  a  '  zebra. ' 

'Nothing  with  a  tail '  is  a  snake. 

The  cat  purring  is  a  'bumblecat.' 

The  white  eggs  in  the  incubator  have  *  blossomed.' 

But  education  soon  robs  them  of  this  quaintness." 

In  other  words,  education  robs  them  of  a  part  of  the  joy  of 
making  poems.  Children  are  poets.  And  when  a  very  naughty 
boy  is  very  angry  the  vivid  iniquity  of  his  "calling  names" 
is  as  masterly  as  any  of  those  impolite  passages  in  Shakespeare 
that  begin  or  end  with  references  to  a  "lily-livered  knave" 
or  the  like. 

If  we  think  about  childhood  long  enough  and  honestly  enough, 
we  shall  be  willing  to  admit  that  children  are  poets  and  that 
they  love  poetry  as  poets  love  it.  Although  their  knowledge 
of  life  is  less  than  ours,  although  the  range  of  their  interests  is 
limited  to  a  certain  extent  by  the  walls  of  the  nursery  or  the 
fence  around  the  garden,  their  minds,  in  promise  of  capacity,  are 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  381 

as  good  as  ours.  Their  taste  is  sometimes  better  than  ours,  for 
it  is  the  result  of  natural  and  sincere  reactions,  not  of  prejudice 
and  unfortunate  training.  But  they  are  not  ready  to  enjoy  all 
of  the  kinds  of  poetry  which  please  or  edify  grown  up  people. 
And  grown  up  people  should  be  wise  enough  and  tactful  enough 
to  offer  them  what  they  can  enjoy,  or  at  least  not  to  make 
a  burden  of  what  should  be  a  pleasure,  by  insisting  that  a 
child  must  like  something  which,  it  is  quite  evident,  he  does  not 
like. 

What  kind  of  poetry  is  usually  offered  to  children?  Do  we 
offer  them  good  vigorous  ballads  that  satisfy  the  craving  for 
stories  and  strong  rhythms?  Do  we  give  them  good  folk  poetry, 
folk  songs  and  folk  games,  which  are  nearer  than  anything  else 
to  the  kind  of  thing  that  children  make  for  themselves?  Or  do 
we  give  them  heavy  moral  treatises  in  prim  meters,  "rhymed 
ethics,"  clumsily  versified  " uplift?"  These  are  questions  that 
we  must  answer  before  we  can  say  that  they  do  not  like  poetry. 
"Evangeline"  is  all  very  well.  Some  children  like  her  very 
much.  But  how  many  children  have  liked  "  The  Psalm  of  Life  " 
with  its  dreary  and  formal  stanzas  beginning,  "Tell  me  not  in 
mournful  numbers"?  Many  children  learned  that  poem  in  the 
schools  of  twenty  years  ago  who  never  learned  another  poem 
unless  they  were  made  to  learn  others  by  the  force  of  will  of  their 
elders.  Many  worse  poems  are  offered  to  children.  Many 
worse  poems  are  assigned  for  memory  work. 

Something  can  be  said,  of  course,  for  the  educational  value 
of  what  poets  call  "rhymed  ethics."  When  moral  maxims  are 
set  before  us  in  verse  they  tend  to  be  remembered  rather  better 
than  when  they  are  set  before  us  in  prose.  But  such  didactic 
verses  are  seldom  poetry.  Why  not  be  quite  frank  with  children 
and  say,  "Here  is  a  lesson  or  sermon  written  in  verse.  We  want 
you  to  learn  it  and  remember  it  because  we  believe  that  these 
ideas  will  be  good  ones  to  live  by.  They  have  been  put  into 
verse  because  verse  is  easier  to  memorize  and  to  remember  than 
prose."  If  this  were  done  children  would  get  a  clear-cut  and 
true  conception  of  the  thing  as  it  is.  But  harm  is  done  when 


382  NEW  VOICES 

we  offer  children,  as  beautiful  poetry,  what  is  not  poetry  and 
not,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  artist,  beautiful. 

"Rhymed  ethics"  and  poetry  are  both  valuable,  no  doubt, 
but  they  are  not  valuable  in  the  same  way.  They  are  not  the 
same  thing.  Poetry  is  the  sharing  of  lif e  in  patterns  of  rhythmical 
words,  a  discipline  for  the  sympathies,  a  great  art  in  which  have 
been  expressed  the  emotions  of  all  great  peoples.  And  since 
poetry  is  all  this,  it  must  be  this  for  the  child,  within  the  limits 
of  his  capacity,  a  thing  of  joy,  not  a  thing  of  labor  and  dullness, 
not  anything  utilitarian. 

If  we  would  combine  ethical  training  with  the  love  of  poetry 
or  teach  ethics  through  poetry,  we  must  offer  children  master- 
pieces. And  we  must  offer  them  without  comment.  We  can 
do  it  best  with  great  stories  told  in  beautiful  language.  The 
Bible  gives  us  many  stories  of  this  kind.  And  children  nearly 
always  like  Bible  stories  although  they  seldom  understand  and 
enjoy  and  reecho  the  majestic  lyrical  beauty  of  the  Psalms. 
Stories  in  good  poetry  have  immense  ethical  value  when  no 
moral  is  pointed  out.  "  Dauber,"  by  John  Masefield,  and  "Le- 
panto,"  by  G.  K.  Chesterton,  are  fine  poems  for  boys.  But  it 
is  hardly  tactful  to  teU  a  boy  to  read  either  one  because  it  may 
do  him  good.  That  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  grown  up  people 
frequently  do  in  dealing  with  children.  They  do  not  treat  chil- 
dren with  the  consideration  which  they  show  for  sensitive  grown 
up  people,  who  can  retaliate! 

Another  reason  why  children  sometimes  dislike  poetry  is  that 
schools  sometimes  make  very  hard  work  of  it.  In  many  schools 
the  presentation  of  poetry  is  purely  scientific  and  critical. 
Children  learn  to  dissect — one  might  better  say  to  vivisect — 
poems.  They  do  not  learn  what  is  more  important,  to  enjoy 
them.  Yet  poets  made  them  to  be  enjoyed,  not  dissected.  The 
critical  and  scientific  study  of  poetry  has  its  place  in  education 
and  is  very  valuable.  It  is  especially  valuable  for  students 
who  have  already  learned  to  enjoy  poetry.  It  will  do  them  no 
harm.  But  often  critical  and  scientific  study  begins  too  soon, 
before  children  have  felt  the  charm  of  poetry  as  an  art.  And 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  383 

often  poetry  is  presented  only  in  the  scientific  way,  and  not  as  an 
art  at  all! 

Psychologists  have  taught  us  something  of  the  importance  of 
the  association  of  ideas  and  of  the  value  of  first  impressions.  If 
our  first  acquaintance  with  anything  gives  us  pleasure,  we  are 
likely  to  seek  that  thing  again.  If  our  first  acquaintance  with 
it  is  tiresome  and  painful,  we  are  likely  to  avoid  it  for  the  future, 
if  we  can.  Many  people  of  this  generation  have  avoided  poetry 
because  their  memories  return  to  long  dull  afternoons,  when, 
with  troubled  minds  and  aching  heads,  they  tried  to  scan  line 
upon  line  of  lofty  language,  or  looked  up  definitions  of  long, 
rhetorical  words.  Such  were  their  first  associations  with  poetry. 
They  never  learned  to  like  it. 

Poets,  like  other  sensible  people,  believe  that  children  should 
work  hard  in  school  and  that  they  should  study  grammar  and 
rhetoric.  But  they  would  like  to  have  children  get  the  joy  that 
can  be  found  in  poetry.  They  believe  that  children  should  know, 
not  only  the  rigors  of  hard  work,  but  the  happiness  of  sharing 
beauty. 

How,  then,  can  children  and  poetry  be  introduced  to  each 
other?  How  can  these  two  loveliest  things  in  the  world  be 
brought  together?  Only  in  ways  that  are  natural  to  childhood. 
We  can  read  them  good  ballads  and  good  folk  poetry.  Or, 
better  still,  we  can  "say"  (not  "recite")  good  poems  for  them, 
watching  their  faces  to  see  whether  they  like  the  poems  or  not. 
If  they  like  the  poems  we  choose,  we  can  say  them  over  and  over 
again,  by  request  of  the  audience.  If  they  do  not  like  our  sel- 
ections we  can  put  away  the  poems  that  do  not  please,  for  a  year 
or  two.  Then  we  may  venture  to  offer  them  again.  Of  course 
we  shall  pay  the  children  the  compliment  of  offering  only  poetry 
which  we  sincerely  respect.  And,  when  we  read  to  them,  or 
say  poems  for  them,  we  shall  be  careful  to  allow  no  eccentrici- 
ties of  voice  and  manner  to  make  the  poetry  ridiculous  or  to 
distract  the  minds  of  our  audience.  We  shall  be  as  simple, 
as  natural,  as  unaffected  and  sincere  as  it  is  possible  for  us  to  be. 
When  interesting  poetry  is  presented  in  this  way  by  a  man  or 


384  NEW  VOICES 

woman  with  sympathy,  imagination,  and  a  pleasant  voice, 
children  do  like  it.  Sometimes  they  like  it  better  than  they  can 
teU. 

Men  and  women  who  have  kept  the  gift  of  play,  who  can  take 
part  hi  children's  games  without  being  supervisors  or  intruders, 
can  do  much  more  than  this  to  bring  poetry  close  to  the  hearts  of 
children.  They  can  help  the  children  to  dramatize  good  poems, 
to  make  or  invent  poem-games  and  poem-dances.  For  poetry, 
like  music,  like  play,  should  be  a  part  of  every  day  life  for  chil- 
dren. Children  should  never  be  led  to  suppose  that  poetry 
is  an  intellectual  pastime  for  scholarly  persons  and  a  little  more 
difficult  and  dangerous  than  the  game  of  chess.  It  has  never 
been  that  for  poets.  It  has  never  been  that  for  lovers  of  poetry. 
It  should  never  be  that  for  children.  And  it  never  is  unless  we 
make  it  that  for  them.  They  clamor  for  "Mother  Goose." 
They  would  clamor  for  other  poetry  if  we  provided  any  other 
poetry  that  they  would  like  and  if  we  offered  it  tactfully. 

"But  'Mother  Goose'  is  not  poetry — not  real  poetry!" 
some  serious-minded  person  will  say.  Why  not?  The  rhythms 
of  the  nursery  rhymes  are  fine,  organic  rhythms,  absolutely  true 
and  in  accord  with  the  meanings  which  they  accompany.  The 
stories  of  the  nursery  rhymes  are  simple,  direct,  easy  to  under- 
stand, and  told  with  masterly  brevity.  The  rhymes  are  as 
good  as  any  we  offer  children.  And  sometimes  the  lines  sparkle 
with  quaint  imaginings.  Such  a  line  is  the  line  in  "  Miss  Moffet " 
in  which  it  is  recorded  of  the  spider  that  he  "sat  down  beside 
her."  It  would  be  fun  to  see  a  spider  sit  down.  Will  no  one 
rise  to  defend  "Mother  Goose?"  Yes  indeed.  The  nursery 
rhymes  are  excellent  poetry  of  their  kind. 

Children  find  keen  delight  in  folk  songs  of  the  kind  that  are 
passed  on  from  father  to  son  and  mother  to  daughter  and  never 
forgotten.  Many  children  have  found  the  beginnings  of  the  love 
of  poetry  in  the  best  of  the  "Frog  and  Mouse"  songs  or  in  the 
gay  and  fanciful  ballad  about  "Old  Mother  Slipper  Slopper" 
and  the  fox  who  went  out  on  a  wintry  night,  "  to  see  what  he 
could  find  to  eat."  Such  poems  will  serve  as  types  of  what 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  385 

children  like  and  we  may  look  through  anthologies  for  poems  of  a 
similar  kind,  poems  that  have  a  simple  story  and  strong  rhythm. 

Contemporary  poets  have  written  a  number  of  poems  that 
children  like.  Those  quoted  at  the  end  of  this  chapter  are  all 
poems  that  have  given  real  pleasure  to  real  children.  None  have 
been  quoted  in  the  hope  that  they  would  please.  All  have  been 
tested.  And  all  are  good  poems,  the  work  of  good  poets.  It  is 
not  difficult  to  find  a  poem  here  and  another  there  that  children 
can  enjoy. 

To  find  books  of  poems  that  children  will  read  over  and  over 
again  for  their  own  pleasure  is  a  more  difficult  matter.  Perhaps 
the  best  books  of  contemporary  poetry  for  little  children  are 
''The  Jungle  Books"  (first  and  second,  prose  and  verse  together) 
by  Rudyard  Kipling,  and  "Peacock  Pie"  by  Walter  de  la 
Mare. 

Most  of  us  know  the  poems  in  "The  Jungle  Books."  What 
very  beautiful  poetry  they  are!  How  strong  and  fluent  in 
rhythm,  how  finely  imagined,  how  stirring  and  satisfying  in 
mood  and  story!  To  have  grown  up  without  a  knowledge  of 
"The  Jungle  Books"  is  to  have  grown  up  without  something 
precious  that  all  children  should  have. 

"Peacock  Pie,"  much  more  recently  published,  is  not  so  well 
known.  But  the  little  poems  in  it  may  well  become  immortal. 
It  would  be  a  fine  thing  if  Santa  Claus  would  give  it  to  every- 
body. Grown  up  people  whose  minds  are  not  severely  melan- 
choly will  enjoy  the  delicate  fancy,  the  odd  whimsies,  the  beauti- 
ful craftsmanship  of  this  book  as  much  as  children.  Children 
will  enjoy  the  same  things  as  much  as  grown  up  people.  It 
is  as  delightful  in  poetry  as  "Alice  In  Wonderland"  is  in  prose. 
It  is  difficult  to  be  dull  and -stolid  with  such  a  book  at  hand 
and  every  tune  we  read  these  poems  we  like  them  a  little  bit 
better.  Perhaps,  some  day,  the  story  of  Jim  Jay  and  the  story 
of  the  three  jolly  farmers,  and  the  story  of  the  old  lady  who  went 
blackberry  picking,  "Half  way  over  from  Weep  to  Wicking," 
will  be  as  widely  known  and  dearly  loved  as  the  classical "  Mother 
Hubbard." 


386  NEW  VOICES 

Older  children  can  enjoy  many  poems  that  little  children  do 
not  understand.  The  range  of  their  experience  enlarges  as  they 
grow  up  and  it  is  much  easier  to  select  lyrics  that  will  please 
them.  Robert  Frost's  sketch  of  the  Bacchic  iniquity  of  the 
cow  in  apple  time  is  a  poem  that  amuses  boys  and  girls  who  have 
lived  in  the  country.  They  also  like  "Brown's  Descent." 
Vachel  Lindsay's  poem-games,  like  "The  King  of  Yellow  Butter- 
flies," have  given  pleasure  to  the  groups  of  children  who  have 
played  them.  His  social  and  choral  poem  about "  King  Solomon 
and  the  Queen  of  Sheba"  can  be  worked  out  in  dramatic  form 
by  bigger  boys  and  girls.  Fanny  Stearns  Davis'  "  Song  of  Conn 
The  Fool"  is  a  delight  to  most  children  who  hear  it.  Little 
girls  like  her  "Up  a  Hill  and  a  Hill." 

Poets  who  have  pleased  children  have  taken  for  themselves 
laurel  wreaths  cast  in  bronze,  wreaths  that  will  never  wither. 
And  children  who  have  learned  the  love  of  poetry  will  grow  in 
that  love  as  they  grow  in  wisdom  and  stature.  Children  who 
have  learned  to  care  for  poetry,  or  perhaps  we  should  say  chil- 
dren who  have  never  been  prevented  from  caring  for  poetry, 
are  children  especially  protected  against  the  lure  of  specious, 
time-wasting  pleasures.  They  are  children  with  a  passion  for 
heroic  behavior.  They  have  broader  sympathies  than  children 
who  do  not  know  poetry.  And  they  have  been  provided  with 
the  noblest,  the  least  costly,  and  the  most  democratic  of  all 
recreations  in  a  pleasure  that  will  endure  while  Me  endures,  as 
dear  and  absorbing  in  mellow  old  age  as  in  harsh  middle  life  or 
eager,  restless  childhood  and  youth. 

Moreover,  the  poems  that  give  delight  to  the  children  of  to- 
day will  be  echoed  in  the  beauty  and  vitality  of  the  children  of 
to-morrow.  For  the  greatest  power  we  know  is  the  power  of 
speech.  The  Word,  with  all  its  grace  of  meaning  and  melody, 
is  the  heritage  of  all  of  the  children  of  men.  It  is  their  birth- 
right. There  is  no  speech  or  language  where  their  voice  is  not 
heard.  But  they  speak  to  small  purpose,  nowadays,  if  they  never 
use  the  bravest  and  most  beautiful  human  speech,  which  is 
poetry. 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  387 

THE  CHILD'S  HERITAGE 

Oh,  there  are  those,  a  sordid  clan, 
With  pride  in  gaud  and  faith  in  gold, 
Who  prize  the  sacred  soul  of  man 
For  what  his  hands  have  sold. 

And  these  shall  deem  thee  humbly  bred: 
They  shall  not  hear,  they  shall  not  see 
The  kings  among  the  lordly  dead 
Who  walk  and  talk  with  thee! 

A  tattered  cloak  may  be  thy  dole 
And' thine  the  roof  that  Jesus  had: 
The  broidered  garment  of  the  soul 
Shall  keep  thee  purple-clad! 

The  blood  of  men  hath  dyed  its  brede, 
And  it  was  wrought  by  holy  seers 
With  sombre  dream  and  golden  deed 
And  pearled  with  women's  tears. 

With  Eld  thy  chain  of  days  is  one: 
The  seas  are  still  Homeric  seas; 
Thy  sky  shall  glow  with  Pindar's  sun, 
The  stars  of  Socrates! 

Unaged  the  ancient  tide  shall  surge, 
The  old  Spring  burn  along  the  bough: 
The  new  and  old  for  thee  converge 
In  one  eternal  Now! 

I  give  thy  feet  the  hopeful  sod, 

Thy  mouth,  the  priceless  boon  of  breath; 

The  glory  of  the  search  for  God 

Be  thine  in  life  and  death! 

Unto  thy  flesh,  the  soothing  dust; 
Thy  soul,  the  gift  of  being  free: 
The  torch  my  fathers  gave  in  trust, 
Thy  father  gives  to  thee! 

John  G,  Neihardt 


388  NEW  VOICES 

POEMS  THAT  CHILDREN  LIKE 

LYRIC  FROM  "THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE" 

The  wind  blows  out  of  the  gates  of  day, 

The  wind  blows  over  the  lonely  of  heart, 

And  the  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away, 

While  the  faeries  dance  in  a  place  apart, 

Shaking  their  milk-white  feet  in  a  ring, 

Shaking  their  milk-white  arms  in  the  air; 

For  they  hear  the  wind  laugh,  and  murmur  and  sing 

Of  a  land  where  even  the  old  are  fair, 

And  even  the  wise  are  merry  of  tongue; 

But  I  heard  a  reed  of  Coolaney  say, 

"When  the  wind  has  laughed  and  murmured  and  sung, 

The  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away." 

William  Butler  Yeats 


ROAD-SONG  OF  THE  BANDAR  LOG* 

Here  we  go  in  a  flung  festoon, 
Half-way  up  to  the  jealous  moon! 
Don't  you  envy  our  pranceful  bands? 
Don't  you  wish  you  had  extra  hands? 
Wouldn't  you  like  if  your  tails  were — so — 
Curved  in  the  shape  of  a  Cupid's  bow? 
Now  you're  angry,  but — never  mind, 
Brother,  thy  tail  hangs  down  behind! 

Here  we  sit  in  a  branchy  row, 
Thinking  of  beautiful  things  we  know; 
Dreaming  of  deeds  that  we  mean  to  do, 
All  complete,  in  a  minute  or  two — 
Something  noble  and  grand  and  good, 
Won  by  merely  wishing  we  could. 
Now  we're  going  to — never  mind, 
Brother,  thy  tail  hangs  down  behind! 

*  Taken  from  The  Jungle  Book  by  permission  of  The  Century  Co. 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  389 

All  the  talk  we  ever  have  heard 
Uttered  by  bat  or  beast  or  bird — 
Hide  or  fin  or  scale  or  feather — 
Jabber  it  quickly  and  all  together! 
Excellent!  Wonderful!  Once  again! 
Now  we  are  talking  just  like  men. 

Let's  pretend  we  are  .  .  .  never  mind, 

Brother,  thy  tail  hangs  down  behind! 

This  is  the  way  of  the  Monkey-kind. 

Then  join  our  leaping  lines  that  scumfish  through  the  pines, 
That  rocket  by  where,  light  and  high,  the  wild-grape  swings. 
By  the  rubbish  in  our  wake,  and  the  noble  noise  we  make, 
Be  sure,  be  sure,  we're  going  to  do  some  splendid  things! 

Rudyard  Kipling 


UP  A  HILL  AND  A  HILL 

Up  a  hill  and  a  hill  there's  a  sudden  orchard-slope, 

And  a  little  tawny  field  in  the  sun; 
There's  a  gray  wall  that  coils  like  a  twist  of  frayed-out  rope, 

And  grasses  nodding  news  one  to  one. 

Up  a  hill  and  a  hill  there's  a  windy  place  to  stand, 
And  between  the  apple-boughs  to  find  the  blue 

Of  the  sleepy  summer  sea,  past  the  cliffs  of  orange  sand, 
With  the  white  charmed  ships  sliding  through. 

Up  a  hill  and  a  hill  there's  a  little  house  as  gray 
As  a  stone  that  the  glaciers  scored  and  stained; 

With  a  red  rose  by  the  door,  and  a  tangled  garden-way, 
And  a  face  at  the  window  checker-paned. 

I  could  climb,  I  could  climb,  till  the  shoes  fell  off  my  feet, 

Just  to  find  that  tawny  field  above  the  sea! 
Up  a  hill  and  a  hill, — oh,  the  honeysuckle's  sweet! 

And  the  eyes  at  the  window  watch  for  me! 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis 


390  NEW  VOICES 

THE  SONGS  OF  CONN  THE  FOOL 

MOON  FOLLY 

I 

I  will  go  up  the  mountain  after  the  Moon: 
She  is  caught  in  a  dead  fir-tree. 
Like  a  great  pale  apple  of  silver  and  pearl, 
Like  a  great  pale  apple  is  she. 

I  will  leap  and  will  catch  her  with  quick  cold  hands 
And  carry  her  home  in  my  sack. 
I  will  set  her  down  safe  on  the  oaken  bench 
That  stands  at  the  chimney-back. 

And  then  I  will  sit  by  the  fire  all  night, 
And  sit  by  the  fire  all  day. 
I  will  gnaw  at  the  Moon  to  my  heart's  delight 
Till  I  gnaw  her  slowly  away. 

And  while  I  grow  mad  with  the  Moon's  cold  taste 
The  World  will  beat  at  my  door, 
Crying  "Come  out!"  and  crying  "Make  haste, 
And  give  us  the  Moon  once  more!" 

But  I  shall  not  answer  them  ever  at  all. 
I  shall  laugh,  as  I  count  and  hide 
The  great  black  beautiful  Seeds  of  the  Moon 
In  a  flower-pot  deep  and  wide. 

Then  I  shall  lie  down  and  go  fast  asleep, 
Drunken  with  flame  and  aswoon. 
But  the  seeds  will  sprout  and  the  seeds  will  leap, 
The  subtle  swift  seeds  of  the  Moon. 

And  some  day,  all  of  the  World  that  cries 
And  beats  at  my  door  shall  see 
A  thousand  moon-leaves  spring  from  my  thatch 
On  a  wonderful  white  Moon-tree! 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  391 

Then  each  shall  have  Moons  to  his  heart's  desire: 
Apples  of  silver  and  pearl; 
Apples  of  orange  and  copper  fire 
Setting  his  five  wits  aswirl! 

And  then  they  will  thank  me,  who  mock  me  now, 
"Wanting  the  Moon  is  he,"— 
Oh,  I'm  off  to  the  mountain  after  the  Moon, 
Ere  she  falls  from  the  dead  fir-tree! 

Fannie  Stearns  Davis 


BROWN'S  DESCENT 

OR 
THE  WILLY-NILLY  SLIDE 

Brown  lived  at  such  a  lofty  farm 
That  everyone  for  miles  could  see 

His  lantern  when  he  did  his  chores 
In  winter  after  half  past  three. 

And  many  must  have  seen  him  make 
His  wild  descent  from  there  one  night, 

*  Cross  lots,  'cross  walls,  'cross  everything, 
Describing  rings  of  lantern  light. 

Between  the  house  and  barn  the  gale 
Got  him  by  something  he  had  on 

And  blew  him  out  on  the  icy  crust 

That  cased  the  world,  and  he  was  gone! 

Walls  were  all  buried,  trees  were  few: 

He  saw  no  stay  unless  he  stove 
A  hole  in  somewhere  with  his  heel. 

But  though  repeatedly  he  strove 

And  stamped  and  said  things  to  himself, 
And  sometimes  something  seemed  to  yield, 

He  gained  no  foothold,  but  pursued 
His  journey  down  from  field  to  field. 


392  NEW  VOICES 

Sometimes  he  came  with  arms  outspread 
Like  wings,  revolving  in  the  scene 

Upon  his  longer  axis,  and 
With  no  small  dignity  of  mien. 

Faster  or  slower  as  he  chanced, 
Sitting  or  standing  as  he  chose, 

According  as  he  feared  to  risk 

His  neck,  or  thought  to  spare  his  clothes. 

He  never  let  the  lantern  drop. 

And  some  exclaimed  who  saw  afar 
The  figures  he  described  with  it, 

"I  wonder  what  those  signals  are 

Brown  makes  at  such  an  hour  of  night! 

He's  celebrating  something  strange. 
I  wonder  if  he's  sold  his  farm, 

Or  been  made  Master  of  the  Grange." 

He  reeled,  he  lurched,  he  bobbed,  he  checked; 

He  fell  and  made  the  lantern  rattle 
(But  saved  the  light  from  going  out.) 

So-half-way  down  he  fought  the  battle 

Incredulous  of  his  own  bad  luck. 

And  then  becoming  reconciled 
To  everything,  he  gave  it  up 

And  came  down  like  a  coasting  child. 

"Well-I-be-"  that  was  all  he  said, 
As  standing  in  the  river  road, 

He  looked  back  up  the  slippery  slope 
(Two  miles  it  was)  to  his  abode. 

Sometimes  as  an  authority 
On  motor-cars,  I'm  asked  if  I 

Should  say  our  stock  was  petered  out 
And  this  is  my  sincere  reply: 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  393 

Yankees  are  what  they  always  were. 

Don't  think  Brown  ever  gave  up  hope 
Of  getting  home  again  because 

He  couldn't  climb  that  slippery  slope; 

Or  even  thought  of  standing  there 

Until  the  January  thaw 
Should  take  the  polish  off  the  crust. 

He  bowed  with  grace  to  natural  law, 

And  then  went  round  it  on  his  feet, 

After  the  manner  of  our  stock; 
Not  much  concerned  for  those  to  whom, 

At  that  particular  time  o'clock, 

It  must  have  looked  as  if  the  course 

He  steered  was  really  straight  away 
From  that  which  he  was  headed  for — 

Not  much  concerned  for  them,  I  say; 

No  more  so  than  became  a  man — 

And  politician  at  odd  seasons. 
I've  kept  Brown  standing  in  the  cold 

While  I  invested  him  with  reasons; 

But  now  he  snapped  his  eyes  three  tunes; 

Then  shook  his  lantern  saying,  "He's 
'Bout  out!"  and  took  the  long  way  home 

By  road,  a  matter  of  several  miles. 

Robert  Frost 


THE  BRONCHO  THAT  WOULD  NOT  BE  BROKEN 

A  little  colt — broncho,  loaned  to  the  farm 
To  be  broken  in  time  without  fury  or  harm, 
Yet  black  crows  flew  past  you,  shouting  alarm, 
Calling  "Beware,"  with  lugubrious  singing  .  .  . 
The  butterflies  there  in  the  bush  were  romancing, 
The  smell  of  the  grass  caught  your  soul  in  a  trance, 
So  why  be  a-fearing  the  spurs  and  the  traces, 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing? 


394  NEW  VOICES 

You  were  born  with  the  pride  of  the  lords  great  and  olden 
Who  danced,  through  the  ages,  in  corridors  golden. 
In  all  the  wide  farm-place  the  person  most  human. 
You  spoke  out  so  plainly  with  squealing  and  capering, 
With  whinnying,  snorting,  contorting  and  prancing, 
As  you  dodged  your  pursuers,  looking  askance, 
With  Greek-footed  figures,  and  Parthenon  paces, 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

The  grasshoppers  cheered.    "Keep  whirling,"  they  said. 

The  insolent  sparrows  called  from  the  shed 

"If  men  will  not  laugh,  make  them  wish  they  were  dead." 

But  arch  were  your  thoughts,  all  malice  displacing, 

Though  the  horse-killers  came,  with  snake-whips  advancing. 

You  bantered  and  cantered  away  your  last  chance. 

And  they  scourged  you;  with  Hell  in  their  speech  and  their  faces, 

O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

"Nobody  cares  for  you,"  rattled  the  crows, 
As  you  dragged  the  whole  reaper  next  day  down  the  rows. 
The  three  mules  held  back,  yet  you  danced  on  your  toes. 
You  pulled  like  a  racer,  and  kept  the  mules  chasing. 
You  tangled  the  harness  with  bright  eyes  side-glancing, 
While  the  drunk  driver  bled  you — a  pole  for  a  lance — 
And  the  giant  mules  bit  at  you — keeping  their  places. 
O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

In  that  last  afternoon  your  boyish  heart  broke. 

The  hot  wind  came  down  like  a  sledge-hammer  stroke. 

The  blood-sucking  flies  to  a  rare  feast  awoke. 

And  they  searched  out  your  wounds,  your  death-warrant  tracing. 

And  the  merciful  men,  their  religion  enhancing, 

Stopped  the  red  reaper  to  give  you  a  chance. 

Then  you  died  on  the  prairie,  and  scorned  all  disgraces, 

O  broncho  that  would  not  be  broken  of  dancing. 

Vachel  Lindsay 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  395 


DAYS  TOO  SHORT* 

When  Primroses  are  out  in  Spring 

And  small,  blue  violets  come  between; 
When  merry  birds  sing  on  boughs  green, 

And  rills,  as  soon  as  born,  must  sing; 

When  butterflies  will  make  side-leaps, 
As  though  escaped  from  Nature's  hand 
Ere  perfect  quite;  and  bees  will  stand 

Upon  their  heads  in  fragrant  deeps; 

When  small  clouds  are  so  silvery  white 
Each  seems  a  broken  rimmed  moon — 
When  such  things  are,  this  world  too  soon, 

For  me,  doth  wear  the  veil  of  Night. 

William  H.  Davies 


THE  RAIN* 

I  hear  leaves  drinking  Rain 

I  hear  rich  leaves  on  top 
Giving  the  poor  beneath 

Drop  after  drop; 
'Tis  a  sweet  noise  to  hear 
These  green  leaves  drinking  near. 

And  when  the  Sun  comes  out, 

After  this  rain  shall  stop, 
A  wondrous  Light  will  fill 

Each  dark,  round  drop; 
I  hope  the  Sun  shines  bright; 
'Twill  be  a  lovely  sight. 

William  H.  Davies 

1  By  arrangement  with  Mr.  Davies'  London  publisher,  A.  C.  Pifield. 


396  NEW  VOICES 


LEPANTO* 

White  founts  falling  in  the  Courts  of  the  sun, 

And  the  Soldan  oi  Byzantium  is  smiling  as  they  run; 

There  is  laughter  like  the  fountains  in  that  face  of  all  men  feared, 

It  stirs  the  forest  darkness,  the  darkness  of  his  beard, 

It  curls  the  blood-red  crescent,  the  crescent  of  his  lips, 

For  the  inmost  sea  of  all  the  earth  is  shaken  with  his  ships. 

They  have  dared  the  white  republics  up  the  capes  of  Italy, 

They  have  dashed  the  Adriatic  round  the  Lion  of  the  Sea, 

And  the  Pope  has  cast  his  arms  abroad  for  agony  and  loss, 

And  called  the  kings  of  Christendom  for  swords  about  the  Cross. 

The  cold  queen  of  England  is  looking  in  the  glass; 

The  shadow  of  the  Valois  is  yawning  at  the  Mass; 

From  evening  isles  fantastical  rings  f aint  the  Spanish  gun, 

And  the  Lord  upon  the  Golden  Horn  is  laughing  in  the  sun. 

Dim  drums  throbbing,  in  the  hills  half  heard, 

Where  only  on  a  nameless  throne  a  crownless  prince  has  stirred, 

Where,  risen  from  a  doubtful  seat  and  half  attainted  stall, 

The  last  knight  of  Europe  takes  weapons  from  the  wall, 

The  last  and  lingering  troubadour  to  whom  the  bird  has  sung, 

That  once  went  singing  southward  when  all  the  world  was  young. 

In  that  enormous  silence,  tiny  and  unafraid, 

Comes  up  along  a  winding  road  the  noise  of  the  Crusade. 

Strong  gongs  groaning  as  the  guns  boom  far, 

Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war, 

Stiff  flags  straining  in  the  night-blasts  cold 

In  the  gloom  black-purple,  in  the  glint  old-gold, 

Torchlight  crimson  on  the  copper  kettle-drums, 

Then  the  tuckets,  then  the  trumpets,  then  the  cannon,  and  he  comes. 

Don  John  laughing  in  the  brave  beard  curled, 

Spurning  of  his  stirrups  like  the  thrones  of  all  the  world, 

Holding  his  head  up  for  a  flag  of  all  the  free. 

Love-light  of  Spain— hurrah! 

Death-light  of  Africa! 

Don  John  of  Austria 

Is  riding  to  the  sea. 

*By  special  arrangement  with  Mr.  Chesterton's  London  publishers,  Messrs  Burns  and 
Gates. 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  397 

Mahound  is  in  his  paradise  above  the  evening  star, 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war.} 

He  moves  a  mighty  turban  on  the  timeless  houri's  knees, 

His  turban  that  is  woven  of  the  sunsets  and  the  seas. 

He  shakes  the  peacock  gardens  as  he  rises  from  his  ease, 

And  he  strides  among  the  tree-tops  and  is  taller  than  the  trees, 

And  his  voice  through  all  the  garden  is  a  thunder  sent  to  bring 

BlackAzrael  and  Ariel  and  Ammon  on  the  wing. 

Giants  and  the  Genii, 

Multiplex  of  wing  and  eye, 

Whose  strong  obedience  broke  the  sky 

When  Solomon  was  king. 

They  rush  in  red  and  purple  from  the  red  clouds  of  the  morn, 

From  temples  where  the  yellow  gods  shut  up  their  eyes  in  scorn; 

They  rise  in  green  robes  roaring  from  the  green  hells  of  the  sea 

Where  fallen  skies  and  evil  hues  and  eyeless  creatures  be; 

On  them  the  sea-valves  cluster  and  the  grey  sea-forests  curl, 

Splashed  with  a  splendid  sickness,  the  sickness  of  the  pearl; 

They  swell  in  sapphire  smoke  out  of  the  blue  cracks  of  the  ground, — 

They  gather  and  they  wonder  and  give  worship  to  Mahound. 

And  he  saith,  "Break  up  the  mountains  where  the  hermit-folk  can 

hide, 

And  sift  the  red  and  silver  sands  lest  bone  of  saint  abide, 
And  chase  the  Giaours  flying  night  and  day,  not  giving  rest, 
For  that  which  was  our  trouble  comes  again  out  of  the  west. 
We  have  set  the  seal  of  Solomon  on  all  things  under  sun, 
Of  knowledge  and  of  sorrow  and  endurance  of  things  done, 
But  a  noise  is  in  the  mountains,  in  the  mountains,  and  I  know 
The  voice  that  shook  our  palaces — four  hundred  years  ago  : 
It  is  he  that  saith  not  '  Kismet; '  it  is  he  that  knows  not  Fate; 
It  is  Richard,  it  is  Raymond,  it  is  Godfrey  in  the  gate! 
It  is  he  whose  loss  is  laughter  when  he  counts  the  wager  worth, 
Put  down  your  feet  upon  him,  that  our  peace  be  on  the  earth." 
For  he  heard  drums  groaning  and  he  heard  guns  jar, 
(Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war.} 
Sudden  and  still — hurrah  I 
Bolt  from  Iberia! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  gone  by  Alcalar. 


398  NEW  VOICES 

St.  Michael's  on  his  Mountain  in  the  sea-roads  of  the  north 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  girt  and  going  forth.} 

Where  the  grey  seas  glitter  and  the  sharp  tides  shift 

And  the  sea-folk  labor  and  the  red  sails  lift. 

He  shakes  his  lance  of  iron  and  he  claps  his  wings  of  stone; 

The  noise  is  gone  through  Normandy;  the  noise  is  gone  alone; 

The  North  is  full  of  tangled  things  and  texts  and  aching  eyes 

And  dead  is  all  the  innocence  of  anger  and  surprise, 

And  Christian  killeth  Christian  in  a  narrow  dusty  room, 

And  Christian  dreadeth  Christ  that  hath  a  newer  face  of  doom, 

And  Christian  hateth  Mary  that  God  kissed  in  Galilee, 

But  Don  John  of  Austria  is  riding  to  the  sea. 

Don  John  calling  through  the  blast  and  the  eclipse 

Crying  with  the  trumpet,  with  the  trumpet  of  his  lips, 

Trumpet  that  sayeth  ha! 

Domino  gloria! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  shouting  to  the  ships. 

King  Philip's  in  his  closet  with  the  Fleece  about  his  neck 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  armed  upon  the  deck.} 

The  walls  are  hung  with  velvet  that  is  black  and  soft  as.  sin, 

And  little  dwarfs  creep  out  of  it  and  little  dwarfs  creep  in. 

He  holds  a  crystal  phial  that  has  colours  like  the  moon, 

He  touches,  and  it  tingles,  and  he  trembles  very  soon, 

And  his  face  is  as  a  fungus  of  a  leprous  white  and  grey 

Like  plants  in  the  high  houses  that  are  shuttered  from  the  day 

And  death  is  in  the  phial  and  the  end  of  noble  work, 

But  Don  John  of  Austria  has  fired  upon  the  Turk. 

Don  John's  hunting,  and  his  hounds  have  bayed — 

Booms  away  past  Italy  the  rumour  of  his  raid. 

Gun  upon  gun,  ha!  ha! 

Gun  upon  gun,  hurrah! 

Don  John  of  Austria 

Has  loosed  the  cannonade. 

|p 

The  Pope  was  in  his  chapel  before  day  or  battle  broke, 
(Don  John  of  Austria  is  hidden  in  the  smoke.} 
The  hidden  room  in  man's  house  where  God  sits  all  the  year, 
The  secret  window  whence  the  world  looks  small  and  very  dear. 


CHILDREN  AND  POETRY  399 

He  sees  as  in  a  mirror  on  the  monstrous  twilight  sea 

The  crescent  of  his  cruel  ships  whose  name  is  mystery; 

They  fling  great  shadows  foe-wards,  making  Cross  and  Castle  dark, 

They  veil  the  plumed  lions  on  the  galleys  of  St.  Mark; 

And  above  the  ships  are  palaces  of  brown,  black-bearded  chiefs, 

And  below  the  ships  are  prisons  where  with  multitudinous  griefs, 

Christian  captives  sick  and  sunless,  all  a  laboring  race  repines 

Like  a  race  in  sunken  cities,  like  a  nation  in  the  mines. 

They  are  lost  like  slaves  that  swat,  and  in  the  skies  of  morning  hung 

The  stairways  of  the  tallest  gods  when  tyranny  was  young. 

They  are  countless,  voiceless,  hopeless  as  those  fallen  or  fleeing  on 

Before  the  high  Kings'  horses  in  the  granite  of  Babylon. 

And  many  a  one  grows  witless  in  his  quiet  room  in  hell 

Where  a  yellow  face  looks  inward  through  the  lattice  of  his  cell, 

And  he  finds  his  God  forgotten,  and  he  seeks  no  more  a  sign — 

(But  Don  John  of  Austria  has  burst  the  battle  line!} 

Don  John  pounding  from  the  slaughter-painted  poop, 

Purpling  all  the  ocean  like  a  bloody  pirate's  sloop, 

Scarlet  running  over  on  the  silvers  and  the  golds, 

Breaking  of  the  hatches  up  and  bursting  of  the  holds, 

Thronging  of  the  thousands  up  that  labor  under  sea 

White  for  bliss  and  blind  for  sun  and  stunned  for  liberty. 

Vivat  Hispania! 

Domino  Gloria! 

Don  John  of  Austria 

Has  set  his  people  free! 

Cervantes  on  his  galley  sets  the  sword  back  in  the  sheath 

(Don  John  of  Austria  rides  homeward  with  a  wreath.) 

And  he  sees  across  a  weary  land  a  straggling  road  in  Spain, 

Up  which  a  lean  and  foolish  knight  forever  rides  in  vain, 

And  he  smiles,  but  not  as  Sultans  smile,  and  settles  back  the  blade.  .  . 

(But  Don  John  of  Austria  rides  home  from  the  Crusade.) 

G.   K.   Chesterton 


ADDITIONAL   ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

To  the  Macmillan  Company  for  "The  Mould,"  from  "Poems,"  by 
Gladys  Cromwell;  for  "Saturday  Market,"  from  the  volume  of  the 
same  name  by  Charlotte  Mew;  and  for  "The  Voice,"  from  "Flame 
and  Shadow,"  by  Sara  Teasdale. 

To  Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch  for  "Fireflies  in  the  Corn,"  from  "Look! 
We  Have  Come  Through!"  by  D.  H.  Lawrence;  for  "Strange  Meet- 
ing," from  "Poems,"  by  Wilfred  Owen;  for  "Mother,"  from  "Sun- 
Up,"  by  Lola  Ridge;  and  for  "Climb,"  from  "The  Hesitant  Heart," 
by  Winifred  Welles. 

To  Mr.  Alfred  A.  Knopf  for  "A  House,"  from  "Poems:  First 
Series,"  by  J.  C.  Squire. 

To  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  "Wooden  Ships,"  from  "Ships 
in  Harbor,"  by  David  Morton. 

To  Messrs.  Brentano's  for  "A  Whaler's  Confession,"  from 
"Chanteys  and  Ballads,"  by  Harry  Kemp. 

To  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Company  for  "Mortuary  Parlors,"  from 
"Heavens  and  Earth,"  by  Stephen  Vincent  Benet. 

To  Messrs.  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Company  for  "The  Lady  with  the 
Sewing  Machine,"  by  Edith  Sitwell  from  "A  Miscellany  of  British 
Poetry." 

To  Mr.  John  Lane  for  the  "Epilogue,"  from  "Emblems  of  Love," 
by  Lascelles  Abercrombie. 

To  The  Dial  for  "An  Old  Man  Sees  Himself,"  by  Conrad  Aiken. 

To  The  Touchstone  for  "Daisies"  and  "Time,"  by  Hilda  Conkling. 

To  The  New  Republic  for  "The  Eagle  and  The  Mole,"  by  Elinor 
Wylie. 

To  The  Liberator  for  "Gladness,"  by  Genevieve  Taggard;  and  for 
"Choice,"  by  Muna  Lee. 

To  The  Outlook  for  "  The  Gift,"  by  Aline  Kilmer. 

To  The  Poetry  Bookshop  (London)  for  "Every  Thing,"  from 
"Strange  Meetings,"  by  Harold  Monro;  for  "Prayer,"  from  "Other- 
world,"  by  F.  S.  Flint;  and  for  "Saturday  Market,"  from  the  volume 
of  the  same  name  by  Charlotte  Mew. 

401 


402  NEW  VOICES 

To  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus  for  "Strange  Meeting,"  from 
"Poems,"  by  Wilfred  Owen  and  for  "Fireflies  in  the  Corn,"  from 
"Look!  We  Have  Come  Through!"  by  D.  H.  Lawrence. 

To  Mr.  Cecil  Palmer  for  "The  Lady  with  the  Sewing  Machine," 
in  "A  Miscellany  of  British  Poetry." 

To  Mr.  Martin  Seeker  for  "A  House,"  from  "Poems:  First  Series," 
by  J.  C.  Squire. 

To  The  Bodley  Head  for  the  "  Epilogue,"  from  "  Emblems  of  Love," 
by  Lascelles  Abercrombie. 


POSTSCRIPT 

THE  purpose  of  this  chapter  is  to  tell  something  of  the  most 
important  poetry  published  since  this  book  was  written.  The 
telling  must  be  brief.  I  shall  begin  by  calling  attention  to  the 
best  new  work  of  poets  already  established  in  the  regard  of  the 
public  and  end  by  asking  consideration  for  a  few  new-comers. 
In  so  far  as  seems  justly  possible  I  shall  emphasize  the  work  of 
poets  who  received  scant  attention  in  the  first  edition  of  this 
book. 

In  the  past  three  years,  no  American  poet  has  been  more 
praised  than  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  Occasionally,  by 
happy  accident,  reviewers  place  laurels  on  brows  worthy  of 
them!  Mr.  Robinson's  new  books  are  " Lancelot"  (Seltzer),  a 
new  study  of  King  Arthur's  knight,  "The  Three  Taverns" 
(Macmillan),  a  collection  of  short  poems,  and  "  Avon's  Harvest" 
(Macmillan),  which  has  been  called  "a  dime  novel  in  verse." 

A  quite  fascinating  piece  of  modern  mysticism  is  "The  Valley 
of  the  Shadow"  with  which  "The  Three  Taverns"  begins. 

"For  the  children  of  the  dark  are  more  to  name  than  are  the  wretched, 
Or  the  broken,  or  the  weary,  or  the  baffled,  or  the  shamed: 
There  are  builders  of  new  mansions  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
And  among  them  are  the  dying  and  the  blinded  and  the  maimed." 

"The  Mill,"  in  the  same  book,  is  a  brief  tragedy  as  good  as  the 
famous  "Richard  Cory,"  presented  in  a  cool,  clean-cut  way  that 
amounts  almost  to  nonchalance,  yet  never  is  nonchalance. 
Only  the  finest  sympathy  and  understanding  could  wear  such 
a  manner  successfully. 

"Avon's  Harvest"  (Macmillan),  is  the  story  of  a  man  who 
became  the  victim  of  hatred  and  fear.  When  Avon  was  a  boy 
in  school,  on  his  way 

403 


404  NEW  VOICES 

"To  mark  an  even-tempered  average 
Among  the  major  mediocrities 
Who  serve  and  earn  with  no  especial  noise." 
He 

"never  felt,  and  surely  never  gave 
The  wound  of  any  more  malevolence 
Than  decent  youth,  defeated  for  a  day, 
May  take  to  bed  with  him  and  kill  with  sleep." 

Then  came  for  Avon 

"the  black  tiger 

That  many  of  us  fancy  is  in  waiting, 
But  waits  for  most  of  us  in  fancy  only." 

A  new  boy  entered  the  school,  and  Avon  hated  him  at  once 
with  a  hatred  swift  and  inevitable  as  a  chemical  reaction.  For 
a  while  he  tolerated  him.  Then  came  a  quarrel  that  twisted 
two  lives  away  from  normal  happiness.  Avon's  hatred,  festering 
in  his  mind  for  long  years,  found  no  expression  in  action,  but 
engendered  a  terrible  fear  which  eventually  destroyed  him. 
He  typifies  this  age  of  malice  and  machinery  in  which  many 
men  have  forgotten  how  to  use  their  naked  fists,  but  have  not 
yet  learned  how  to  use  their  souls.  The  story  is  told  crisply 
and  concisely. 

"The  Domesday  Book"  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters  (Macmillan) 
can  not  be  discussed  adequately  in  the  few  paragraphs  at  my 
disposal.  It  is  a  tremendous  novel  in  blank  verse  and  is  full  of 
chaotic  modern  life.  Elenor  Murray,  the  heroine,  is  a  woman 
whose  nature  was  rich  in  the  promise  of  a  fine  flowering,  but 
who  never  learned  to  control  the  power  that  was  in  her  that 
she  might  use  it  for  wise  and  beautiful  ends.  She  spread  spiritual 
havoc.  "The  Domesday  Book"  is  made  up  of  testimony  given 
to  the  coroner  who  inquired  into  the  causes  of  her  sudden  death, 
and  of  the  letters  and  talk  of  many  people  whose  lives  had 
touched  hers. 

Padraic  Colum,  in  a  review  in  The  New  Republic,  makes  the 
following  judicious  remarks  on  "The  Domesday  Book": 


POSTSCRIPT  405 

"What  strikes  one  in  reading  this  mass  of  testimony  is  the 
extraordinary  wilfulness  of  all  the  people  who  figure  in  it.  They 
are  people  who  have  never  come  under  a  moral  discipline.  The 
two  men  who  are  Elenor  Murray's  lovers  have  wives  living. 
Elenor  gives  herself  to  one  and  then  to  the  other  without  any 
tragic  realization  as  regards  either  the  breach  of  chastity  or  the 
breach  of  constancy.  And  a  wilfulness  like  hers  is  shared  by 
every  character  in  the  testimonies." 

Mr.  Colum  goes  on  to  say  that  what  stands  between  these 
people  and  the  fulfillment  for  which  they  are  striving  is  not 
poverty,  is  not  the  tyranny  of  small  souls  in  power,  is  not  Chris- 
tian morality,  but  is  just  this  wilfulness,  this  lack  of  discipline. 

This  ethical  aspect  of  the  book  becomes  the  more  significant 
when  we  remember  that  it  is  brought  forward  not  merely  as  the 
story  of  an  individual  woman,  but  as  a  "census  spiritual"  of 
our  America.  If  this  book  be,  in  reality,  such  a  record  of  Amer- 
ican life,  then  indeed  the  writing  is  on  the  wall  for  us  now  and, 
without  some  new  quickening  to  self -discipline,  we  are  doomed ! 

"The  Domesday  Book"  is  written  with  less  concentration 
and  artistic  detachment  than  went  into  the  making  of  "The 
Spoon  River  Anthology,"  but  it  has  a  terrifying  power  and  the 
conception  is  colossal.  To  quote  Mr.  Colum  again, 

"No  other  poet  in  America  would  dare  undertake  a  poem  of 
such  largeness  of  conception;  no  other  poet  in  America  would 
dare  make  the  challenge  to  the  collective  opinion  of  this  Re- 
public that  there  is  in  certain  words  and  ideas  in  the  testaments; 
no  other  poet  could  carry  on  with  such  vitality."  Reading 
"The  Domesday  Book"  is  like  listening  to  the  long  sound  of 
the  steps  of  a  giant  trudging  through  mud,  looking  for  stars. 

The  salient  quality  of  John  Gould  Fletcher's  "Breakers  and 
Granite"  (Macmillan),  also,  is  its  Americanism.  It  is  a  moving 
picture  of  American  vistas  and  a  panorama  of  the  moods  and 
meanings  that  they  suggest  to  Mr.  Fletcher.  He  knows  his 
own  country  well  from  Manhattan,  rising  into  the  sky  like  a 
"white  lily  of  steel"  to  the  "huge  red-buttressed"  mesas  of 
the  West.  He  sees  his  country  in  perspective.  For  several 


406  NEW  VOICES 

years  he  has  lived  in  England  where  larks  flourish  and  creamy 
sheep  meander  down  immaculate  lanes,  where  tranquil  domestic 
loveliness  soothes  and  heartens  the  race  that  maintains  it.  But 
he  remembers  this  land  of  ours  where  wild  beauty  is  a  challenge, 
where  nature  is  most  aptly  symbolized  by  large  things, — the 
Grand  Canyon,  the  Rockies,  the  Bad  Lands,  the  Mississippi, 
giant  sequoias,  breakers  and  granite;  where  elemental  forces 
declare  that  only  godlike  men  can  dominate  them  spiritually. 
Mr.  Fletcher  feels  this  as  few  other  poets  have  felt  it.  He  has 
succeeded,  somehow,  in  getting  it  into  his  book. 

Most  of  the  poems  included  are  in  unrhymed  cadence,  but 
not  the  least  interesting  ones  are  in  polyphonic  prose.  The 
best,  "Clipper  Ships,"  achieves  an  astonishing  vigor  of  phrase 
and  movement. 

"Beautiful  as  a  tiered  cloud,  skysails  set  and  shrouds  twanging, 
she  emerges  from  the  surges  that  keep  running  away  before  day  on 
the  low  Pacific  shore.  With  the  roar  of  the  wind  blowing  half  a  gale 
after,  she -heels  and  lunges,  and  buries  her  bows  in  the  smother,  lift- 
ing them  swiftly,  and  scattering  the  glistening  spray-drops  from  her 
jibsails  with  laughter.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  a  Yankee  ship  comes  down  the  river;  blow,  boys,  blow:  her 
masts  and  yards  they  shine  like  silver:  blow,  my  bully  boys,  blow: 
she's  a  crack  ship,  a  dandy  clipper,  nine  hundred  miles  from  land; 
she's  a  down-Easter  from  Massachusetts,  and  she's  bound  to  the  Rio 
Grande!" 

America  is  coming  into  her  own  in  American  poetry!  John 
G.  Neihardt's  American  epics,  "The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass"  and 
"The  Song  of  Three  Friends"  (Macmillan)  are  important  be- 
cause they  give  American  readers  a  sense  of  the  epic  conscious- 
ness in  relation  to  their  own  traditions.  I  know  of  no  other 
poems  that  do  this  in  the  same  way. 

Hugh  Glass,  for  example,  was  a  real  hero,  a  hunter  and  trapper 
already  old  in  1822  when  he  went  out  with  Major  Henry 

"Bound  through  the  weird,  unfriending  barren-land 
For  where  the  Big  Horn  meets  the  Yellowstone." 


POSTSCRIPT  407 

He  had  a  marvellous  grizzled  strength,  and  the  important  sec- 
tion of  "The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass,"  "The  Crawl,"  tells  of  a 
terrible  fight  for  life,  alone,  forsaken  by  friends,  even  by  Jamie, 
a  young  man  whose  life  he  had  saved  and  for  whom  he  felt  a 
strong,  fatherly  affection.  A  hundred  miles  he  crawled  across 
the  wilderness,  with  a  torn  face  and  one  leg  useless,  away  from 
the  place  where  his  comrades  had  left  him  to  die  alone  because 
they  were  afraid  of  hostile  Indians.  He  lived  on  bullberries  and 
bread-root,  drinking  the  water  left  in  puddles  after  a  great  rain. 
The  detail  of  "The  Crawl"  is  well  managed.  The  account  of 
the  battle  with  wolves  and  crows  for  a  part  of  their  prey  is 
masterly,  and  just  as  good  is  the  account  of  the  snare  made  out 
of  the  ravellings  of  a  sock  and  set  for  a  gopher  that  broke  it  and 
got  away.  The  sternness  of  "The  Crawl"  and  its  depth  of 
reality  make  it  superior  to  the  rest  of  the  poem. 

"The  Song  of  Three  Friends,"  taken  as  a  whole,  is  a  finer 
achievement  than  "The  Song  of  Hugh  Glass."  It  is  a  superbly 
vigorous  tale  of  physical  action  accurately  presented  in  virile 
phraseology  and  in  swiftly  moving  pentameter  lines  that  have 
vitality  although  they  lack  rhythmical  subtlety.  We  moderns 
must  remember,  however,  that  strength,  not  subtlety,  is  the 
virtue  of  the  epic. 

"The  Song  of  Three  Friends"  is  tragic.  Bill  Carpenter,  "a 
cedar  of  a  man,"  Mike  Fink,  who  had  "the  conscience  of  a 
faun"  and  Talbeau,  "a  skinny  whiffet"  who  had  dared  to  fight 
the  mighty  Mike,  started  northward  together  with  Major  Henry 
to  ascend  the  Missouri  for  trade  and  exploration.  The  poem 
tells  how  friendship  ended  in  the  tragic  rite  of  the  shooting  of 
the  whiskey  cup.  Mr.  Neihardt  has  written  parts  of  the  tale 
with  Homeric  gusto.  Take,  for  example,  the  account  of  the  fight 
between  Carpenter  and  Fink,  or  this  description  of  the  feast. 

"So  they  beached  their  boats  and  killed 
Three  fatling  heifers;  sliced  the  juicy  rumps 
For  broiling  over  embers;  set  the  humps 
And  loins  to  roast  on  willow  spits,  and  threw 
The  hearts  and  livers  in  a  pot  to  stew 


408  NEW  VOICES 

Against  the  time  of  dulling  appetites. 
And  when  the  stream  ran  opalescent  lights 
And  in  a  scarlet  glow  the  new  moon  set, 
The  feast  began.    And  some  were  eating  yet, 
And  some  again  in  intervals  of  sleep, 
When  upside  down  above  the  polar  steep 
The  Dipper  hung." 

When  we  come  back  again  into  America  of  to-day  we  find 
Carl  Sandburg's  " Smoke  and  Steel"  (Harcourt,  Brace  &  Co.), 
a  collection  of  quite  characteristic  lyrics  and  sketches.  The 
most  beautiful  poem  in  it  and  that  which  seems  to  me  to  have 
the  strongest  personal  meaning,  is  a  blessing  called  "For  You." 

"The  peace  of  great  prairies  be  for  you, 
Listen  among  windplayers  in  cornfields, 
The  wind  learning  over  its  oldest  music. 

The  peace  of  great  seas  be  for  you. 
Wait  on  a  hook  of  land,  a  rock  footing 
For  you,  wait  in  the  salt  wash. 

The  peace  of  great  mountains  be  for  you, 

The  sleep  and  the  eyesight  of  eagles, 

Sheet  mist  shadows  and  the  long  look  across. 


Yes,  the  peace  of  great  phantoms  be  for  you, 
Phanton  iron  men,  mothers  of  bronze, 
Keepers  of  the  lean,  clean  breeds." 

These  are  proud  words.    To  be  capable  of  feeling  such  a  great 
good  will  is  admirable.    To  speak  it  is  nobler  still. 

Miss  Lowell's  "Pictures  of  a  Floating  World"  (Hough ton 
Mifflin),  which  came  out  in  1919,  is  often  called  her  best  book. 
Personally,  I  like  "Can  Grande's  Castle"  better,  for  Miss  Lowell 
has  an  unusual  gift  for  the  presentation  of  scenes  and  the  pro- 
jection of  dramatic  events  that  makes  her  narrative  poetry 
brilliant  and  interesting.  But  the  short  poems  in  "Pictures  of  a 
Floating  World"  have  imaginative  charm  and  many  of  the 


POSTSCRIPT  409 

"Lacquer  Prints"  and  " Chinoiseries,"  in  particular,  have  been 
made  with  wise  lightness  and  delicacy.  As  I  write,  I  am  waiting 
for  a  copy  of  " Legends"  (Hough ton  Mifflin),  Miss  Lowell's 
latest  book.  It  is  a  collection  of  narrative  poems  made  out  of 
old  folk  stories  which  Miss  Lowell  has  adapted  to  her  own 
artistic  purposes. 

Vachel  Lindsay's  "Golden  Whales  of  California"  (Macmillan) 
begins  with  a  roaring  burlesque  of  the  Californian's  love  of  his 
own  commonwealth  and  of  his  tendency  to  show  that  love  in 
booming  exaggerations.  The  clue  to  the  meaning  is  given  once 
and  for  all  when  Mr.  Lindsay  says  that  "flowers  burst  like  bombs 
in  California."  Perhaps  nothing  in  this  book  is  quite  so  good  as 
Mr.  Lindsay's  masterpieces  previously  published,  "The  Chinese 
Nightingale,"  "General  William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven," 
and  "The  Congo,"  but  there  is  much  in  it  to  please  his  admirers. 

Robert  Frost,  unfortunately  for  the  general  public  of  America, 
has  offered  no  new  book  recently.  But  his  contributions  to 
magazines  have  been  rarely  beautiful  and  will  soon  be  collected, 
doubtless,  into  a  book  greatly  to  be  desired.  New  editions  of 
"North  of  Boston"  and  "Mountain  Interval"  (Holt)  have 
been  brought  out  in  the  past  two  years. 

Sara  Teasdale,  since  the  publication  of  "Rivers  to  the  Sea" 
(Macmillan),  has  found  a  philosophy  of  life  and  death.  Her 
latest  book,  "Flame  and  Shadow"  (Macmillan),  enables  us  to 
watch  the  conflict  between  the  light  from  everlasting  beauty 
and  the  darkness  of  the  ever-present  shadow  of  death,  in  the 
arena  of  one  human  soul.  Here  is  another  steel-strong,  defiant 
intellect,  answering  the  riddle  of  the  universe  with  song. 

The  brave,  who  love  life  so  well  that  death  seems  tragic  to 
them,  must  find  a  way  of  facing  the  thought  of  it  serenely.  If 
the  current  assurances  of  immortality  satisfy  their  searching 
intellects,  well  and  good.  They  have  found  their  Elysium.  If 
not,  what  then?  To  this  question  Sara  Teasdale  offers  a  two- 
fold answer.  First  there  is  the  answer  of  the  strong  ego  refusing 
to  take  cognizance  of  a  universe  in  which  it  can  not  live  and 
love  forever.  Though  worlds  crumble  and  ages  dissolve,  says 


410  NEW  VOICES 

the  ego,  for  me  there  must  be  "some  shining  strange  escape." 
But  that  is  not  all,  audacious  as  it  is.  Even  if  there  can  be  no 
escape,  she  says,  man  can  triumph  through  the  love  of  beauty. 
This  is  the  center  from  which  the  light  of  her  thought  radiates, 
giving  life  a  new  meaning  and  motive  for  people  who  can  not 
make  more  popular  systems  of  thought  their  own. 

The  rhythms  of  these  new  poems  are  more  subtle  and  ac- 
curate psychologically  than  any  to  be  found  in  Sara  Teasdale's 
earlier  work.  She  has  acquired  new  knowledge  of  the  great 
emotional  laws  that  lie  under  rhythms  as  the  bed  of  a  stream 
lies  under  the  waters,  turning  and  troubling  the  course  of  its 
flowing.  Critics  who  do  not  like  rhythms  that  can  not  be  made 
to  wear  antique  labels  may  resent  the  movement  of  "Let  it  be 
Forgotten,"  "The  Long  Hill"  and  "Water  Lilies."  However, 
in  the  course  of  time,  critics  die.  Poets  live  on. 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay  is  another  woman  lyrist  who  can 
make  conservative  technique  significant  and  interesting  and  fit 
for  the  communication  of  fresh  personal  feeling.  Her  "Aria 
da  Capo"  recently  published  and  acted  by  The  Provincetown 
Players  is  a  brilliant  piece  of  dramatic  poetry.  Frank  Shay 
has  published  a  small  sheaf  of  her  verse  called  "Figs  from 
Thistles."  A  most  piquant  and  delightful  short  poem  is  Miss 
Millay's  version  of  the  story  of  Jack  and  his  famous  beanstalk. 
It  won  one  of  the  annual  prizes  offered  by  Poetry,  A  Magazine 
of  Verse. 

In  her  "Hymen:  A  Marriage  Pageant"  published  in  Poetry, 
A  Magazine  of  Verse  in  December,  1919,  H.  D.  has  shown 
herself  as  a  ritualist,  perhaps  the  only  pagan  poet-ritualist 
now  writing.  The  pageant  is  in  the  Greek  spirit,  most  completely 
visualized,  heard,  and  felt  in  the  mind.  It  has  color,  music, 
and  character.  The  rhythms  are  severely  simple  and  absolutely 
appropriate.  The  strophe  and  antistrophe  of  the  groups  of 
bridesmaids  are  admirably  managed. 

A  number  of  books  by  other  poets  already  well  known  deserve 
honorable  mention  with  those  already  discussed.  One  is  John 
Hall  Wheelock's  "Dust  and  Light"  (Scribners),  remarkable  for 


POSTSCRIPT  411 

the  beauty  of  the  nature  poetry  in  the  section  called  "  Glimmer- 
ing Earth."  Another  is  "Body  and  Raiment"  (Knopf),  by 
Eunice  Tietjens.  It  is  written  with  an  astonishing  versatility 
of  thought  and  technique.  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese's  "Spice- 
wood"  (Norman  Remington)  has  the  grace  and  distinction 
always  associated  with  her  name.  Alice  Corbin  Henderson's 
"Red  Earth"  (Seymour),  in  which  can  be  found,  with  other 
good  things,  her  "Muy  Vieja  Mexicana,"  Witter  Bynner's  "A 
Canticle  of  Pan"  (Knopf),  William  Rose  Benet's  ballads  of 
the  Renaissance,  "Moons  of  Grandeur"  (Doran),  and  Richard 
Le  Gallienne's  "Junkman  and  Other  Poems"  (Doubleday 
Page)  will  all  interest  readers  of  contemporary  poetry.  Clement 
Wood  has  grown  in  grace  and  in  artistic  restraint.  There- 
fore "The  Earth  Turns  South"  (Button),  is  better  than  his 
first  book.  Arthur  Guiterman's  "Ballads  of  Old  New  York" 
(Harpers),  written  in  correct  and  careful  meters  and  very 
simply,  show  a  keen  affection  for  the  great  city  and  her  tradi- 
tions which  will  give  them  a  safe  place  among  popular  poem^s 
of  the  period.  Aside  from  his  humor  this  is  Mr.  Guiterman's 
best  work.  And,  speaking  of  humor,  it  is  not  in  keeping  with 
the  purpose  of  this  book  to  discuss  even  the  best  humorous 
verse,  but  I  can  not  refrain  from  mentioning,  parenthetically, 
"Fishing  Stories,"  by  Don  Marquis.  It  is  one  of  the  finest 
combinations  of  music,  laughter,  and  imagination  ever  put 
into  verse  by  an  American. 

Lola  Ridge  is  a  later  arrival  than  any  of  the  poets  just  men- 
tioned, but  "The  Ghetto"  and  "Sun-Up"  (Huebsch),  are  so 
well  known  to  poets  of  to-day  that  she  is  in  no  sense  a  debutante. 
She  is  a  passionate  humanitarian  radical  whose  pictures  of  life 
are  drawn  sharply  and  are  full  of  intense  color.  Nobody  who 
has  ever  read  it  with  a  heart  beating  in  the  body  can  forget  the 
magnificent  irony  of  her  "Lullaby"  for  the  little  brown  baby 
burned  in  the  race  riots.  Miss  Ridge  is  a  bold,  unhesitating 
voice,  a  fiery  idealist  without  illusions. 

The  past  few  years  have  witnessed  the  rise  of  Maxwell  Boden- 
heim,  a  radical  poet  who  has  been  much  praised,  especially  for 


412  NEW  VOICES 

a  terse  skill  in  phraseology.  Louis  Untermeyer,  in  his  admirably 
stimulating  "New  Era  in  Contemporary  Poetry"  (Holt),  says 
that  Mr.  Bodenheim's  images  are  fresh  "without  attempting 
the  latest  heresy"  and  that  "his  sensitivity  to  words  makes 
him  especially  expert  in  the  use  of  the  verbal  nuance."  Conrad 
Aiken,  in  "Scepticisms"  (Knopf),  calls  him  one  of  the  most 
original  of  contemporary  poets"  and  an  "intrepid  juggler  with 
sensations."  Herbert  S.  Gorman  writes  of  him  with  enthusiasm 
for  The  New  York  Times. 

Conrad  Aiken's  new  books  are  "The  House  of  Dust"  (Four 
Seas)  and  "Punch,  The  Immortal  Liar"  (Knopf).  They  are 
remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  cadence  that  characterizes  Mr. 
Aiken's  work  always,  no  matter  what  the  substance  of  it  may  be 
like.  That  substance  is  often  regrettably  unpleasant,  but 
Mr.  Aiken  is  one  of  about  a  dozen  poets  of  our  language  now 
living  who  have  a  real  understanding  of  rhythm. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  spend  words  in  description  of  the 
ethical  enthusiasm  of  Angela  Morgan  and  Corinne  Roosevelt 
Robinson,  to  discuss  the  meanings  and  measures  of  such  ac- 
complished lyrists  as  Karle  Wilson  Baker,  Cale  Young  Rice, 
Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher,  Louis  V.  Ledoux,  and  William  Alex- 
ander Percy,  but  to  accomplish  the  purpose  of  this  chapter  it  is 
necessary  to  pass  on  to  the  consideration  of  young  poets  whose 
work  comes  to  us  out  of  the  period  of  wrath  and  reconstruction 
in  which  we  are  now  living. 

Many  critics  are  giving  an  honorable  place  in  the  younger 
choir  of  America  to  Stephen  Vincent  Benet  whose  "Heavens 
and  Earth"  (Holt)  is  full  of  fresh  and  brilliant  poetry.  Like 
many  another  young  poet,  Mr.  Benet  is  interested  in  Helen  of 
Troy  and  the  first  poems  in  the  volume  are  written  in  her  honor, 
but  they  are  more  interesting  than  intellectual  adventures  with 
that  lady  of  loveliness  usually  are.  Stronger,  finer,  and  clearer, 
I  think,  are  the  poems  about  New  York.  "The  Plow"  and 
"November  Prothalamium "  are  good.  "Mortuary  Parlors" 
is  a  fine  piece  of  bitter  and  passionate  speech,  revealing  a  wealth 
of  clean,  wholesome,  honorable  feeling. 


POSTSCRIPT  413 

Lew  Sarett,  also,  deserves  well  of  the  public.  His  first  book, 
"Many,  Many  Mooms"  (Holt),  was  a  good  beginning.  But 
since  its  appearance  Mr.  Sarett  has  written  his  best  poem, 
"The  Box  of  God,"  published  in  Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse  in 
April,  1921.  It  is  a  noble  account  of  the  life  of  an  Indian  friend 
and  of  the  world-old  quest  for  God. 

We  should  make  public  thanksgiving,  too,  to  John  Bunker, 
for  one  poem,  "The  Whistling  Boy"  included  in  his  "Shining 
Fields  and  Dark  Towers  "  (Lane).  It  is  a  lovable  lyric  that  says, 

"And  the  mists  blew  from  the  meadows,  and  all  the  silly  lambs 

Rose  stiff-legged  and  bleating  beside  their  feeding  dams. 

But  the  boy  passed  slowly  by  me  and  he  said  never  a  word; 

His  hair  was  white  like  the  fleece  of  a  lamb,  and  his  song  like  a  bird." 

Edwin  Curran's  lyrics  in  a  small  collection  published  by 
The  Four  Seas  Company  have  many  technical  imperfections 
and  are  uneven  in  quality,  but  certain  lines  and  stanzas  give 
the  sharp  thrill  of  delight  that  only  good  poetry  gives.  Babette 
Deutsch  is  one  of  the  most  intellectual  of  the  young  poet-critics, 
and  her  "Banners"  (Doran)  and  some  of  her  later  lyrics  have 
an  astringent  sincerity  that  is  worth  while.  John  V.  A.  Weaver, 
probably,  has  achieved  a  wider  popularity  than  any  other  singer 
in  the  younger  choir.  His  book,  "In  American"  (Knopf)  is  a 
judicious  combination  of  slang  and  the  sentimental,  showing 
life  as  it  seems  to  "kids"  and  "flappers."  It  has  won  the  praise 
of  H.  L.  Mencken  and  others.  The  youngest  member  of  the 
younger  choir  is  Hilda  Conkling,  the  ten-year-old  daughter  of 
Grace  Hazard  Conkling.  Hilda  works  lyrical  miracles  with 
natural  cadences  and  fresh  imagery  and  any  poet  might  be 
proud  of  certain  naive  and  spontaneous  passages  in  her  "Poems 
of  a  Little  Girl"  (Stokes). 

It  would  be  easy  to  name  a  host  of  other  poets  whose  work  is 
finding  readers  in  our  country — some  of  them  new  to  the  world 
of  letters,  some  of  them  already  well  known.  I  might  name 
poets  of  the  Orient  now  writing  in  our  language — Ameen  Rihani, 
Dhan  Gopal  Mukerji,  Yone  Noguchi.  I  might  name  Marya 


414  NEW  VOICES 

Zaturensky,  Willard  Wattles,  Maxwell  Anderson,  John  McClure, 
Marjorie  Allen  Seiffert,  H.  L.  Davies,  Leonora  Speyer,  Walter 
Adolphe  Roberts,  Berenice  Lesbia  Kenyon  and  Hildegarde  Plan- 
ner. But  some  attention  must  be  given  to  poets  of  Great  Britain. 

John  Masefield  has  given  us  three  books  since  the  war,  "En- 
slaved/' "Reynard  the  Fox"  and  "Right  Royal"  (Macmillan). 
"Enslaved"  is  disappointing  in  so  far  as  the  title  poem  is  con- 
cerned because  it  takes  Mr.  Masefield  away  from  the  vivid 
modern  world  of  reality  in  which  he  always  triumphs  into  a 
world  of  violet-hued  romance  which  is  the  province  of  lesser 
poets.  In  the  same  volume,  however,  is  a  fine  ballad  called 
"The  Hounds  of  Hell"  which  makes  the  book  worth  while. 
"Reynard  the  Fox"  is  a  swift,  vigorous,  racy  narrative  of  an 
English  hunt,  admirably  felt  and  admirably  executed.  "Right 
Royal"  is  an  interesting  tale  of  a  great  English  race  on  the 
Compton  Course. 

"The  Wild  Swans  at  Coole,"  by  William  Butler  Yeats  (Mac- 
millan) was  not  so  well  received  by  reviewers  in  this  country 
as  it  should  have  been.  This  may  be  because  Mr.  Yeats  has 
achieved  that  maturity  of  reputation  which  rouses  and  chal- 
lenges commentators.  His  excellence  was  discovered  long  ago. 
It  is  no  longer  new  in  discussion.  The  focus  of  attention  has 
changed  and  his  genius  is  subjected  to  close  scrutiny  and  search- 
ing analysis.  A  natural  reaction.  "  The  Wild  Swans  at  Coole," 
however,  will  stand  up  against  many  attacks.  It  is  a  small 
book  of  austere  and  exquisite  poetry,  remarkable  chiefly  for 
a  noble  simplicity  of  style  and  a  discriminating  candor  of 
emotional  utterance.  The  title  poem  alone  is  enough  to  give 
the  book  every  claim  to  distinction.  It  is  full  of  suggestive 
overtones  that  move  with  the  swans, 

"  Unwearied  still,  lover  by  lover, 

They  paddle  in  the  cold, 

Companionable  streams  or  climb  the  air; 

Their  hearts  have  not  grown  old; 

Passion  or  conquest,  wander  where  they  will, 

Attend  upon  them  still." 


POSTSCRIPT  415 

Walter  de  la  Mare's  "Collected  Poems"  (Holt)  permit  us  to 
overhear  many  gentle  colors  and  their  enchanting  shadows 
talking  happily  with  many  lovable  ghosts.  Wilfrid  Wilson 
Gibson's  "Neighbors"  (Macmillan)  enables  us  to  feel  the  ticking 
of  the  heart  in  the  man  next  door — another  of  Mr.  Gibson's 
volumes  of  revelation  of  common  humanity.  "  The  Dark  Wind," 
by  W.  J.  Turner  (Button)  is  a  collection  of  quiet,  tuneful  lyrics 
of  which  the  best  are  "Petunia,"  beginning  with  the  lines, 

"When  I  have  a  daughter  I  shall  name  her  Petunia: 
Petunia,  Petunia  I  shall  call  her" 

and  the  one  called  "Romance"  with  its  charming  iteration  of 
delectable  names, 

"When  I  was  but  thirteen  or  so 

I  went  into  a  golden  land, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

Took  me  by  the  hand." 

Lascelles  Abercrombie,  Harold  Monro,  and  F.  S.  Flint  are 
three  English  poets  who  can  be  read  in  our  country  only  by 
lovers  of  poetry  who  will  send  to  England  for  their  books.  The 
fact  that  they  have  not  been  published  here  is  a  triple  sin  of 
omission  for  which  American  publishers  should  repent. 

Lascelles  Abercrombie  is  deservedly  well  known  in  England 
and  takes  rank  with  the  best  Georgians.  His  great  achievement 
is  "Emblems  of  Love"  (Lane),  a  history  of  the  evolution  of  the 
love  of  man  and  woman,  large  in  conception  and  dignified  in 
execution,  set  forth  in  a  series  of  stories  of  sex  relationships 
dramatically  presented.  The  book  ends  with  a  marriage  song 
and  a  beautiful  epilogue.  A  more  recent  achievement  is  Mr. 
Abercrombie's  "Witchcraft:  New  Style"  which  can  be  found  in 
"Georgian  Poetry,  1918-1919"  (The  Poetry  Bookshop).  Out- 
wardly it  seems  to  be  a  somewhat  uncanny,  but  thoroughly  vital, 
tale  of  a  common  woman's  dominance  over  her  husband,  through 
a  shrewd  magic  of  her  mind.  Inwardly  and  really  it  is  a  psycho- 


416  NEW  VOICES 

logical  study  of  a  very  modern  kind,  a  clear,  clean-cut  analysis 
of  the  power  of  suggestion. 

Harold  Monro's  " Strange  Meetings"  (The  Poetry  Bookshop) 
will  never  disappoint  readers  who  find  joy  in  the  wizardry  of 
the  imagination.  His  " Every  Thing"  is  a  friendly  communion 
with  inanimate  objects,  full  of  a  quaint,  shy  humor.  His  "  Week- 
End"  sonnets  are  a  delightful  commentary  on  the  way  English 
people  have  of  taking  to  the  country  for  over  Sunday  because 

"Out  in  the  country  everyone  is  wise." 

Of  the  many  poems  about  "Trees"  Mr.  Monro's  is  one  of  the 
best. 

"The  trees  throw  up  their  singing  leaves,  and  climb 

Spray  over  spray.    They  break  through  Time. 

Their  roots  lash  through  the  clay.    They  lave 

The  earth  and  wash  along  the  ground; 

They  burst  in  green  wave  over  wave, 

Fly  in  a  blossom  of  light  foam; 

Rank  following  windy  rank  they  come." 

The  trees  "break  through  Time"!    That  is  nobly  said. 

F.  S.  Flint  is  an  Imagist.  His  "Otherworld"  (The  Poetry 
Bookshop)  is  an  example  of  admirable  technique  in  the  use  of 
unrhymed  cadence,  but  it  is  more  than  that.  It  is  a  human 
document.  It  is  wrought  out  of  the  certain  stuff  of  poetry,  out 
of  griefs,  cares,  sympathies  and  loves  that  are  both  unique  and 
universal  because  they  are  sincerely  personal.  Mr.  Flint  has  put 
his  life  into  this  book,  not  only  as  it  is,  but  also  as  he  would  have 
it  if  he  could.  In  the  title  poem  he  creates  and  reveals  his  own 
Utopia.  The  strangely  moving  quality  in  it  is  due,  I  think,  to 
the  fact  that  the  things  he  most  longs  for  are  simple  things  that 
all  the  men  in  the  world  should  have,  and  would  have  if  the 
world  were  righteously  ordered — a  home  in  the  country,  quiet 
and  clean  and  sweet  with  flowers,  a  happy  wife,  beautiful  chil- 
dren, good  friends,  books,  and  leisure  for  sane  work.  Because 
of  this  poem  Mr.  Flint  has  been  called  "too  domestic."  The 
phrase  is  foolish.  Domesticity  is  a  strong  floor  under  the  feet 


POSTSCRIPT  417 

of  all  great  peoples  and  a  sure  wall  about  them  and  a  hearth 
where  burn  the  purest  flames. 

Apropos  of  the  Imagists,  let  me  say  here  that  I  have  been 
accused,  perhaps  with  some  justice,  of  inadequate  and  unfair 
treatment  of  their  work  in  the  chapter  on  The  Diction  of  Con- 
temporary Poetry,  in  the  first  edition  of  this  book.  In  so  far 
as  unfairness  really  existed  it  was  due,  I  think,  to  the  fact  that 
I  had  allowed  myself  to  generalize  in  an  impressionistic  way  on 
the  work  of  the  school  as  a  whole  when  I  should  have  been 
specific  and  definite.  For  example,  by  generalizing  I  may  have 
led  a  few  unwary  readers  to  suppose  that  all  Imagists  use  all  of 
the  adjectives  "chrome,"  "saffron"  and  "mauve"  too  fre- 
quently, which,  of  course,  is  not  true.  I  have  it  on  good  au- 
thority that  Richard  Aldington  and  H.  D.  have  not  made  use 
of  the  word  "mauve."  I  am  glad  to  relieve  them  from  the 
burden  of  the  implication.  The  paragraph  substituted  for  the 
original  paragraph  on  page  122  must  be  a  generalization  still, 
for  the  sake  of  the  context.  But  the  reader  will  understand  that 
it  is  a  generalization.  In  future,  I  shall  be  specific. 

D.  H.  Lawrence  began  his  career  as  an  Imagist,  but,  like  the 
best  of  the  others,  has  now  emerged  as  an  individual.  His  two 
books  "Look!  We  Have  Come  Through!"  and  "New  Poems" 
(Huebsch)  are  collections  of  frank  erotic  lyrics  in  rhymed  and 
unrhymed  cadence.  In  the  first  book  will  be  found  the  deli- 
cately wistful  "Fireflies  in  the  Corn"  quoted  at  the  end  of  this 
chapter.  In  the  second  is  a  beautifully  written  preface  explain- 
ing the  relationship  which  Mr.  Lawrence  believes  must  exist 
between  the  rhythmical  design  of  a  poem  and  the  quality  of  the 
experience  out  of  which  it  is  made. 

Admirers  of  Richard  Aldington  will  be  much  pleased  with 
certain  of  his  poems  of  the  war  and  in  particular  with  "Vicarious 
Atonement." 

"This  is  an  old  and  very  cruel  god. 

We  will  endure; 

We  will  try  not  to  wince 

When  he  crushes  and  rends  us." 


418  NEW  VOICES 

Mr.  Aldington  has  been  making  rarely  beautiful  translations, 
also,  of  the  work  of  poets  of  antiquity  not  well  known  to  the 
reading  public. 

If  it  were  possible,  I  should  discuss  here  and  now  the  work 
of  Aldous  Huxley,  admirable  in  technique,  of  Edward  Shanks 
whose  "Queen  of  China"  (Knopf)  won  the  Hawthornden  Prize, 
of  Anna  Wickham,  a  woman  lyrist  of  no  small  ability,  and  of 
Edith,  Osbert,  and  Sacheverell  Sitwell.  But  I  can  discuss  only 
two  more  poets,  the  most  notable  recently  discovered  in  England, 
Charlotte  Mew  and  Wilfred  Owen. 

Charlotte  Mew  fills  every  line  of  her  work  with  life.  She 
is  a  new  person  in  literature.  The  narratives  in  "Saturday 
Market"  (Macmillan)  dramatize  the  emotions  of  men,  women, 
and  children  in  such  a  strong  way  that  they  become  subjectively 
lyrical.  It  is  as  if  the  poet  put  on  other  lives  as  we  put  on  gar- 
ments. Or  it  may  be  truer  to  say  that  she  lets  other  lives  wear 
the  raiment  of  her  words. 

In  this  she  is  obviously  feminine.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  that 
she  has  taken  sorrow  and  doubt  and  wonder  from  the  lips  of 
others  and  brooded  over  them  in  her  own  heart  in  a  motherly 
fashion  and  that  she  has  set  them  down,  finally,  with  her  own 
intuitive  understanding  and  sympathy  added  to  them.  Some- 
thing of  this  way  of  searching  out  the  souls  of  men  is  suggested 
in  "I  Have  Been  Through  the  Gates."  But  whether  I  am  right 
or  wrong  as  to  the  method,  such  is  the  effect  that  the  poems  give. 
They  are  the  words  of  a  confidante  of  life  become  a  revealer. 

Quite  as  remarkable  as  her  broad  and  profound  sympathy 
are  the  delicacy,  the  sensitivity  of  her  mind.  And  quite  as  re- 
markable, again,  is  the  power  of, her  rhythms.  She  can  make 
every  syllable,  every  catch  of  the  breath  mean  something.  Each 
cadence  has  a  true  emotional  value. 

Wilfred  Owen's  "Poems"  (Huebsch)  are  both  terrible  and 
triumphant  as  records  of  the  war,  terrible  in  their  presentation 
of  its  atrocious  misery,  triumphant  in  their  spiritual  truth.  His 
book  should  be  read  with  the  utmost  reverence.  Here  is  a 
travail  too  deep  for  tears  and  a  victory  too  bright  for  trumpets. 


POSTSCRIPT  419 

What  can  be  said  about  such  words  as  these  from  "Apologia 
ProPoemateMeo"? 

"I,  too,  saw  God  through  mud — 

The  mud  that  cracked  on  cheeks  when  wretches  smiled, 
War  brought  more  glory  to  their  eyes  than  blood, 
And  gave  their  laughs  more  glee  than  shakes  a  child. 


And  witnessed  exultation — 

Faces  that  used  to  curse  me,  scowl  for  scowl, 
Shine  and  lift  up  with  passion  of  oblation, 
Seraphic  for  an  hour;  though  they  were  foul. 


Nevertheless,  except  you  share 

With  them  in  hell  the  sorrowful  dark  of  hell, 
Whose  world  is  but  the  trembling  of  a  flare, 
And  heaven  but  as  a  highway  for  a  shell, 

You  shall  not  hear  their  mirth: 

You  shall  not  come  to  think  them  well  content 
By  any  jest  of  mine.    These  men  are  worth 
Your  tears:  You  are  not  worth  their  merriment." 

Nothing  should  need  to  be  said  about  such  poetry.  Critical 
comment  may  well  seem  to  be  an  impertinence.  But  let  no- 
body doubt  that  Mr.  Owen  had  genius  as  well  as  knowledge, 
passion,  and  a  great  good  will  toward  mankind.  At  the  end  of 
this  chapter  his  " Strange  Meeting"  is  quoted.  In  it  readers 
will  notice  that  his  use  of  assonance  and  dissonance  produces  a 
series  of  jarring  sounds  absolutely  in  keeping  with  the  terror 
and  magnificence  of  the  ideas  and  emotions  set  before  us.  Yet 
it  is  for  their  souls'  sakes,  not  for  aesthetic  pleasure  merely, 
that  people  should  read  this  book. 


420  NEW  VOICES 


STRANGE  MEETING 

It  seemed  that  out  of  the  battle  I  escaped 

Down  some  profound  dull  tunnel,  long  since  scooped 

Through  granites  which  Titanic  wars  had  groined. 

Yet  also  there  encumbered  sleepers  groaned, 

Too  fast  in  thought  or  death  to  be  bestirred. 

Then,  as  I  probed  them,  one  sprang  up,  and  stared 

With  piteous  recognition  in  fixed  eyes, 

Lifting  distressful  hands  as  if  to  bless. 

And  by  his  smile,  I  knew  that  sullen  hall; 

With  a  thousand  fears  that  vision's  face  was  grained; 

Yet  no  blood  reached  there  from  the  upper  ground, 

And  no  guns  thumped,  or  down  the  flues  made  moan. 

"Strange,  friend,"  I  said,  "Here  is  no  cause  to  mourn." 

"None,"  said  the  other,  "Save  the  undone  years, 

The  hopelessness.    Whatever  hope  is  yours, 

Was  my  life  also;  I  went  hunting  wild 

After  the  wildest  beauty  in  the  world, 

Which  lies  not  calm  in  eyes,  or  braided  hair, 

But  mocks  the  steady  running  of  the  hour, 

And  if  it  grieves,  grieves  richlier  than  here. 

For  by  my  glee  might  many  men  have  laughed, 

And  of  my  weeping  something  has  been  left, 

Which  must  die  now.    I  mean  the  truth  untold, 

The  pity  of  war,  the  pity  war  distilled. 

Now  men  will  go  content  with  what  we  spoiled. 

Or,  discontent,  boil  bloody,  and  be  spilled. 

They  will  be  swift  with  swiftness  of  the  tigress, 

None  will  break  ranks,  though  nations  trek  from  progress. 

Courage  was  mine,  and  I  had  mystery; 

Wisdom  was  mine,  and  I  had  mastery; 

To  miss  the  march  of  this  retreating  world 

Into  vain  citadels  that  are  not  walled. 

Then,  when  much  blood  had  clogged  their  chariot-wheels 

I  would  go  up  and  wash  them  from  sweet  wells, 

Even  with  truths  that  lie  too  deep  for  taint. 

I  would  have  poured  my  spirit  without  stint 

But  not  through  wounds;  not  on  the  cess  of  war. 


POSTSCRIPT  421 

Foreheads  of  men  have  bled  where  no  wounds  were. 
I  am  the  enemy  you  killed,  my  friend. 
I  knew  you  in  this  dark;  for  so  you  frowned 
Yesterday  through  me  as  you  jabbed  and  killed. 
I  parried;  but  my  hands  were  loath  and  cold. 
Let  us  sleep  now  ..." 

Wilfred  Owen 

EVERY  THING 

Since  man  has  been  articulate, 

Mechanical,  improvidently  wise, 

(Servant  of  Fate,) 

He  has  not  understood  the  little  cries 

And  foreign  conversations  of  the  small 

Delightful  creatures  that  have  followed  him 

Not  far  behind; 

Has  failed  to  hear  the  sympathetic  call 

Of  Crockery  and  Cutlery,  those  kind 

Reposeful  Teraphim. 

Of  his  domestic  happiness;  the  Stool 

He  sat  on,  or  the  Door  he  entered  through: 

He  has  not  thanked  them,  overbearing  fool! 

What  is  he  coming  to? 

But  you  should  listen  to  the  talk  of  these. 

Honest  they  are,  and  patient  they  have  kept, 

Served  him  without  his  Thank-you  or  his  Please  .  .  . 

I  often  heard 

The  gentle  Bed,  a  sigh  between  each  word, 

Murmuring,  before  I  slept 

The  Candle,  as  I  blew  it,  cried  aloud, 

Then  bowed, 

And  in  a  smoky  argument 

Into  the  darkness  went. 

The  Kettle  puffed  a  tentacle  of  breath:— 
"Pooh!    I  have  boiled  his  water,  I  don't  know 
Why;  and  he  always  says  I  boil  too  slow. 
He  never  calls  me  "Sukie  dear,"  and  oh, 


422  NEW  VOICES 

I  wonder  why  I  squander  my  desire 
Sitting  submissive  on  his  kitchen  fire." 

Now  the  old  Copper  Basin  suddenly 

Rattled  and  tumbled  from  the  shelf, 

Bumping  and  crying:  "I  can  fall  by  myself; 

Without  a  woman's  hand 

To  patronize  and  coax  and  flatter  me, 

I  understand 

The  lean  and  poise  of  gravitable  land." 

It  gave  a  raucous  and  tumultuous  shout, 

Twisted  itself  convulsively  about, 

Rested  upon  the  floor,  and,  while  I  stare, 

It  stares  and  grins  at  me. 

The  old  impetuous  Gas  above  my  head 
Begins  irascibly  to  flare  and  fret, 
Wheezing  into  its  epileptic  jet, 
Reminding  me  I  ought  to  go  to  bed. 

The  Rafters  creak;  an  Empty-Cupboard  door 
Swings  open;  now  a  wild  Plank  of  the  floor 
Breaks  from  its  joist,  and  leaps  behind  my  foot. 
Down  from  the  chimney  half  a  pound  of  Soot 
Tumbles,  and  lies,  and  shakes  itself  again. 
The  Putty  cracks  against  the  window-pane. 
A  piece  of  Paper  in  the  basket  shoves 
Another  piece,  and  toward  the  bottom  moves. 
My  independent  Pencil,  while  I  write, 
Breaks  at  the  point:  the  ruminating  Clock 
Stirs  all  its  body  and  begins  to  rock, 
Warning  the  waiting  presence  of  the  Night, 
Strikes  the  dead  hour,  and  tumbles  to  the  plain 
Ticking  of  ordinary  work  again. 

You  do  well  to  remind  me,  and  I  praise 
Your  strangely  individual  foreign  ways. 
You  call  me  from  myself  to  recognise 
Companionship  in  your  unselfish  eyes. 


POSTSCRIPT  423 

I  want  your  dear  acquaintances,  although 
I  pass  you  arrogantly  over,  throw 
Your  lovely  sounds,  and  squander  them  along 
My  busy  days.    I'll  do  you  no  more  wrong. 

Purr  for  me,  Sukie,  like  a  faithful  cat. 

You,  my  well  trampled  Boots,  and  you,  my  Hat, 

Remain  my  friends:  I  feel,  though  I  don't  speak, 

Your  touch  grow  kindlier  from  week  to  week. 

It  well  becomes  our  mutual  happiness 

To  go  toward  the  same  end  more  or  less. 

There  is  not  much  dissimilarity, 

Not  much  to  choose,  I  know  it  well,  in  fine, 

Between  the  purposes  of  you  and  me, 

And  your  eventual  Rubbish  Heap,  and  mine. 

Harold  Monro 

EPILOGUE 

What  shall  we  do  for  Love  these  days? 

How  shall  we  make  an  altar-blaze 

To  smite  the  horny  eyes  of  men 

With  the  renown  of  our  Heaven, 

And  to  the  unbelievers  prove 

Our  service  to  our  dear  god,  Love? 

What  torches  shall  we  lift  above 

The  crowd  that  pushes  through  the  mire, 

To  amaze  the  dark  heads  with  strange  fire? 

I  should  think  I  were  much  to  blame, 

If  never  I  held  some  fragrant  flame 

Above  the  noises  of  the  world, 

And  openly  'mid  men's  hurrying  stares, 

Worshipt  before  the  sacred  fears 

That  are  like  flashing  curtains  furl'd 

Across  the  presence  of  our  lord  Love. 

Nay,  would  that  I  could  fill  the  gaze 

Of  the  whole  earth  with  some  great  praise 

Made  in  a  marvel  for  men's  eyes, 

Some  tower  of  glittering  masonries, 

Therein  such  a  spirit  flourishing 


424  NEW  VOICES 

Men  should  see  what  my  heart  can  sing: 
All  that  Love  hath  done  to  me 
Built  into  stone,  a  visible  glee; 
Marble  carried  to  gleaming  height 
As  moved  aloft  by  inward  delight; 
Not  as  with  toil  of  chisels  hewn, 
But  seeming  poised  in  a  mighty  tune. 
For  of  all  those  who  have  been  known 
To  lodge  with  our  kind  host,  the  sun, 
I  envy  one  for  just  one  thing: 
In  Cordova  of  the  Moors 
There  dwelt  a  passion-minded  King, 
Who  set  great  bands  of  marble-hewers 
To  fashion  his  heart's  thanksgiving 
In  a  tall  palace,  shapen  so 
All  the  wondering  world  might  know 
The  joy  he  had  of  his  Moorish  lass. 
His  love,  that  brighter  and  larger  was 
Than  the  starry  places,  into  firm  stone 
He  sent,  as  if  the  stone  were  glass 
Fired  and  into  beauty  blown. 

Solemn  and  invented  gravely 
In  its  bulk  the  fabric  stood, 
Even  as  Love,  that  trusteth  bravely 
In  its  own  exceeding  good 
To  be  better  than  the  waste 
Of  time's  devices;  grandly  spaced, 
Seriously  the  fabric  stood. 
But  over  it  all  a  pleasure  went 
Of  carven  delicate  ornament, 
Wreathing  up  like  ravishment, 
Mentioning  in  sculptures  twined 
The  blitheness  Love  hath  in  his  mind; 
And  like  delighted  senses  were 
The  windows,  and  the  columns  there 
Made  the  following  sight  to  ache 
As  the  heart  that  did  them  make. 
Well  I  can  see  that  shining  song 
Flowering  there,  the  upward  throng 
Of  porches,  pillars  and  windowed  walls, 


POSTSCRIPT  425 

Spires  like  piercing  panpipe  calls, 

Up  to  the  roof's  snow-cloud  flight; 

All  glancing  in  the  Spanish  light 

White  as  water  of  arctic  tides, 

Save  an  amber  dazzle  on  sunny  sides. 

You  had  said,  the  radiant  sheen 

Of  that  palace  might  have  been 

A  young  god's  fantasy,  ere  he  came 

His  serious  worlds  and  suns  to  frame; 

Such  an  immortal  passion 

Quiver'd  among  the  slim  hewn  stone. 

And  in  the  nights  it  seemed  a  jar 

Cut  in  the  substance  of  a  star, 

Wherein  a  wine,  that  will  be  poured 

Some  time  for  feasting  Heaven,  was  stored. 

But  within  this  fretted  shell, 
The  wonder  of  Love  made  visible, 
The  King  a  private  gentle  mood 
There  placed,  of  pleasant  quietude. 
For  right  amidst  there  was  a  court, 
Where  always  musked  silences 
Listened  to  water  and  to  trees; 
And  herbage  of  all  fragrant  sort, — 
Lavender,  lad's-love,  rosemary, 
Basil,  tansy,  centaury, — 
Was  the  grass  of  that  orchard,  hid 
Love's  amazements  all  amid. 
Jarring  the  air  with  rumour  cool, 
Small  fountains  played  into  a  pool 
With  sound  as  soft  as  the  barley's  hiss 
When  its  beard  just  sprouting  is; 
Whence  a  young  stream,  that  trod  on  moss, 
Prettily  rimpled  the  court  across. 
And  in  the  pool's  clear  idleness, 
Moving  like  dreams  through  happiness, 
Shoals  of  small  bright  fishes  were; 
In  and  out  weed-thickets  bent 
Perch  and  carp,  and  sauntering  went 
With  mounching  jaws  and  eyes  a-stare; 
Or  on  a  lotus  leaf  would  crawl, 


426  NEW  VOICES 

A  brinded  loach  to  bask  and  sprawl, 

Tasting  the  warm  sun  ere  it  dipt 

Into  the  water;  but  quick  as  fear 

Back  his  shining  brown  head  slipt 

To  crouch  on  the  gravel  of  his  lair, 

Where  the  cooled  sunbeams  broke  in  wrack, 

Spilt  shatter'd  gold  about  his  back. 

So  within  that  green- veiled  air, 
Within  that  white-walled  quiet,  where 
Innocent  water  thought  aloud, — 
Childish  prattle  that  must  make 
The  wise  sunlight  with  laughter  shake 
On  the  leafage  overbowed, — 
Often  the  King  and  his  love-lass 
Let  the  delicious  hours  pass. 
All  the  outer  world  could  see 
Graved  and  sawn  amazingly 
Their  love's  delighted  riotise, 
Fixt  in  marble  for  all  men's  eyes; 
But  only  these  twain  could  abide 
In  the  cool  peace  that  withinside 
Thrilling  desire  and  passion  dwelt; 
They  only  knew  the  still  meaning  spelt 
By  Love's  flaming  script,  which  is 
God's  word  written  in  ecstasies. 

And  where  is  now  that  palace  gone, 
All  the  magical  skill'd  stone, 
All  the  dreaming  towers  wrought 
By  Love  as  if  no  more  than  thought 
The  unresisting  marble  was? 
How  could  such  a  wonder  pass? 
Ah,  it  was  but  built  in  vain 
Against  the  stupid  horns  of  Rome, 
That  pusht  down  into  the  common  loam 
The  loveliness  that  shone  in  Spain. 
But  we  have  raised  it  up  again! 
A  loftier  palace,  fairer  far, 
Is  ours,  and  one  that  fears  no  war. 
Safe  in  marvellous  walls  we  are; 
Wondering  sense  like  builded  fires, 


POSTSCRIPT  427 

High  amazement  of  desires, 
Delight  and  certainty  of  love, 
Closing  around,  roofing  above 
Our  unapproacht  and  perfect  hour 
Within  the  splendours  of  love's  power. 

Lascelles  Abercrombie 

PRAYER 

As  I  walk  through  the  streets, 
I  think  of  the  things 
That  are  given  to  my  friends: 
Myths  of  old  Greece  and  Egypt, 
Greek  flowers,  Greek  thoughts, 
And  all  that  incandescence, 
All  that  grace, 
Which  I  refuse. 

If  even  the  orchards  of  England, 
Its  gardens  and  its  woods, 
Its  fields  and  its  hills, 
Its  rivers  and  its  seas, 
Were  mine; 
But  they  are  not. 

But  these  are  nothing. 

Give  me  the  flame,  O  Gods, 

To  light  these  people  with, 

These  pavements,  this  motor  traffic, 

These  houses,  this  medley. 

Give  me  the  vision, 
And  they  may  live. 

F.  S.  Flint 

A  HOUSE 

Now  very  quietly,  and  rather  mournfully, 

In  clouds  of  hyacinth  the  sun  retires, 
And  all  the  stubble-fields  that  were  so  warm  to  him 

Keep  but  in  memory  their  borrowed  fires. 


428  NEW  VOICES 

And  I,  the  traveller,  break,  still  unsatisfied, 
From  that  faint  exquisite  celestial  strand, 

And  turn  and  see  again  the  only  dwelling-place 
In  this  wide  wilderness  of  darkening  land. 

The  house,  that  house,  O  now  what  change  has  come  to  it, 
Its  crude  red-brick  facade,  its  roof  of  slate; 

What  imperceptible  swift  hand  has  given  it 
A  new,  a  wonderful,  a  queenly  state? 

No  hand  has  altered  it,  that  parallelogram, 

So  inharmonious,  so  ill  arranged; 
That  hard  blue  roof  in  shape  and  colour's  what  it  was; 

No,  it  is  not  that  any  line  has  changed. 

Only  that  loneliness  is  now  accentuate 

And,  as  the  dusk  unveils  the  heaven's  deep  cave, 

This  small  world's  feebleness  fills  me  with  awe  again, 
And  all  man's  energies  seem  very  brave. 

And  this  mean  edifice,  which  some  dull  architect 

Built  for  an  ignorant  earth-turning  hind, 
Takes  on  the  quality  of  that  magnificent 

Unshakable  dauntlessness  of  human  kind. 

Darkness  and  stars  will  come,  and  long  the  night  will  be, 

Yet  imperturbable  that  house  will  rest, 
Avoiding  gallantly  the  stars'  chill  scrutiny, 

Ignoring  secrets  in  the  midnight's  breast. 

Thunders  may  shudder  it,  and  winds  demoniac 
May  howl  their  menaces,  and  hail  descend; 

Yet  it  will  bear  with  them,  serenely,  steadfastly, 
Not  even  scornfully,  and  wait  the  end. 

And  all  a  universe  of  nameless  messengers 
From  unknown  distances  may  whisper  fear, 

And  it  will  imitate  immortal  permanence, 
And  stare  and  stare  ahead  and  scarcely  hear. 


POSTSCRIPT  429 

It  stood  there  yesterday;  it  will  tomorrow,  too, 

When  there  is  none  to  watch,  no  alien  eyes 
To  watch  its  ugliness  assume  a  majesty 

From  this  great  solitude  of  evening  skies. 

So  lone,  so  very  small,  with  worlds  and  worlds  around, 

While  life  remains  to  it  prepared  to  outface 
Whatever  awful  unconjectured  mysteries 

May  hide  and  wait  for  it  in  time  and  space. 

/.  C.  Squire 


THE  LADY  WITH  THE  SEWING-MACHINE 

Across  the  fields  as  green  as  spinach, 
Cropped  as  close  as  Time  to  Greenwich, 

Stands  a  high  house;  if  at  all, 
Spring  comes  like  a  Paisley  shawl — 

Patternings  meticulous 
And  youthfully  ridiculous. 

In  each  room  the  yellow  sun 
Shakes  like  a  canary,  run 

On  run,  roulade,  and  watery  trill — 
Yellow,  meaningless,  and  shrill. 

Face  as  white  as  any  clock's, 

Cased  in  parsley-dark  curled  locks — 

All  day  long  you  sit  and  sew, 
Stitch  life  down  for  fear  it  grow, 

Stitch  life  down  for  fear  we  guess 
At  the  hidden  ugliness. 

Dusty  voice  that  throbs  with  heat, 
Hoping  with  your  steel-thin  beat 


430  NEW  VOICES 

To  put  stitches  in  my  mind, 
Make  it  tidy,  make  it  kind, 

You  shall  not:  I'll  keep  it  free 
Though  you  turn  earth,  sky  and  sea 

To  a  patchwork  quilt  to  keep 
Your  mind  snug  and  warm  in  sleep! 

Edith  Sitwell 


SATURDAY  MARKET 

Bury  your  heart  in  some  deep  green  hollow 

Or  hide  it  up  in  a  kind  old  tree 
Better  still,  give  it  the  swallow 

When  she  goes  over  the  sea. 

In  Saturday  Market  there's  eggs  a  'plenty 

And  dead-alive  ducks  with  their  legs  tied  down, 
Grey  old  gaffers  and  boys  of  twenty — 

Girls  and  the  women  of  the  town — 
Pitchers  and  sugar-sticks,  ribbons  and  laces, 

Posies  and  whips  and  dicky-birds'  seed, 
Silver  pieces  and  smiling  faces, 

In  Saturday  Market  they've  all  they  need. 

What  were  you  showing  in  Saturday  Market 

That  set  it  grinning  from  end  to  end 
Girls  and  gaffers  and  boys  of  twenty — ? 

Cover  it  close  with  your  shawl,  my  friend — 
Hasten  you  home  with  the  laugh  behind  you, 

Over  the  down — ,  out  of  sight, 
Fasten  your  door,  though  no  one  will  find  you 

No  one  will  look  on  a  Market  night. 

See,  you,  the  shawl  is  wet,  take  out  from  under 

The  red  dead  thing — .    In  the  white  of  the  moon 

On  the  flags  does  it  stir  again?    Well,  and  no  wonder! 
Best  make  an  end  of  it;  bury  it  soon. 


POSTSCRIPT  431 

tf  there  is  blood  on  the  hearth  who'll  know  it? 

Or  blood  on  the  stairs, 
iVhen  a  murder  is  over  and  done  why  show  it? 

In  Saturday  Market  nobody  cares. 

Fhen  lie  you  straight  on  your  bed  for  a  short,  short  weeping 

And  still,  for  a  long,  long  rest, 
rhere's  never  a  one  in  the  town  so  sure  of  sleeping 

As  you,  in  the  house  on  the  down  with  a  hole  in  your  breast. 

Think  no  more  of  the  swallow, 

Forget,  you,  the  sea, 

Never  again  remember  the  deep  green  hollow 
Or  the  top  of  the  kind  old  tree! 

Charlotte  Mew 

FIREFLIES  IN  THE  CORN 

She  Speaks 

Look  at  the  little  darlings  in  the  corn! 

The  rye  is  taller  than  you,  who  think  yourself 
So  high  and  mighty:  look  how  the  heads  are  borne 

Dark  and  proud  on  the  sky,  like  a  number  of  knights 
Passing  with  spears  and  pennants  and  knightly  scorn. 

Knights  indeed!  Much  knight  I  know  will  ride 
With  his  head  held  high,  serene  against  the  sky! 

Limping  and  following  rather  at  my  side, 

Moaning  for  me  to  follow  him!    O  darling  rye 

How  I  adore  you  for  your  simple  pride! 

And  the  dear,  dear  fireflies  wafting  in  between 
And  over  the  swaying  corn-stalks,  just  above 

All  the  dark-feathered  helmets,  like  little  green 
Stars  come  low  and  wandering  here  for  love 

Of  these  dark  knights,  shedding  their  delicate  sheen! 

I  thank  you  I  do,  you  happy  creatures,  you  dears 

Riding  the  air,  and  carrying  all  the  time 
Your  little  lanterns  behind  you!    Ah,  it  cheers 

My  soul  to  see  you  settling  and  trying  to  climb 
The  corn-stalks,  tipping  with  fire  the  spears. 


432  NEW  VOICES 

All  over  the  dim  corn's  motion,  against  the  blue 
Dark  sky  of  night,  a  wandering  glitter,  a  swarm 

Of  questing  brilliant  souls  giving  out  their  true 
Proud  knights  to  battle!    Sweet,  how  I  warm 

My  poor,  my  perished  soul  with  the  sight  of  you! 

D.  H.  Lawrence 


AN  OLD  MAN  SEES  HIMSELF 

Solitary,  before  daybreak,  in  a  garden 
Dark  amid  the  unchanging  snow, 
Watching  the  last  star  fading  in  a  fountain 
Whence  melodies  of  eternal  water  flow, 

Festus,  seeing  the  sky-line  burn  and  brighten 
Coldly,  far  above  the  hidden  sun; 
Seeing  the  golden  thread  of  glory  unravelled 
Along  the  wall  of  mountains  run, 

Hears  in  his  heart  a  cry  of  bewilderment; 

And  turning,  now  here,  now  there — 

Like  one  who  pauses  a  moment  before  departure — 

Partakes  of  the  grace  of  earth  and  air — 

Drinks  of  the  vast  blue  splendor  of  the  sky, 

The  mile  on  mile  of  dew-blanched  grass, 

The  cloud-swept  trees,  the  stones,  bare  cliffs  of  bronze, 

And  in  the  pool,  as  in  a  glass. 

Ringed  round  with  nodding  asters,  frosted  leaf-tips, 
Stoops  to  see  his  image;  and  behold, 
How  faded  is  the  scarlet  of  his  mantle! 
His  face,  how  changed  and  old!  .  .  . 

Sing  now  the  birds:  on  every  bough  a  bird  sings; 
Slowly  at  first,  then  fast  and  faster, 
Till  the  walled  garden  thrills  and  shrills  with  music; 
The  cricket  beneath  the  violet  aster. 


POSTSCRIPT  433 

Cries  his  joy  to  heaven  as  the  first  beam  strikes  him — 
The  foxgloves  bend  beneath  a  weight  of  bees; 
Praise!  Praise!  Praise!  the  chorus  rises, 
Drowsily,  happily,  dumbly,  sway  the  trees. 

Fades  the  star  in  the  fountain,  and  the  sun  comes. 
How  motionless  stands  Festus  there! 
A  red  leaf,  falling  slowly  to  meet  a  red  leaf, 
That  rises  out  of  the  infinite  to  the  air. 

Floats,  is  turned  by  the  wind  about  its  image.  .  .  . 
Ah,  Festus,  is  this  you, 

This  ruin  of  man  about  whom  leaves  fall  coldly 
And  asters  nod  their  dew? 

Pale,  phantasmal,  swirls  the  forest  of  birches, 
It  is  a  dance  of  witch-girls  white  and  slim; 
Delicately  flash  their  slender  hands  in  sunlight! 
Cymbals  hiss,  their  eyes  are  dim 

Under  the  mist  of  hair  they  toss  above  them.  .  .  . 
But  Festus,  turning  never, 

Heeding  them  not,  nor  the  birds,  nor  the  crickets  shrilling, 
Stares  at  the  pool  forever, 

Seeking  in  vain  to  find — somewhere — somewhere — 
In  the  pool,  himself,  the  sky? 
The  slight,  clear,  beautiful  secret  of  these  marvels, 
Of  birch,  birds,  crickets'  cry. 

Blue  sky,  blue  pool,  the  red  leaf  falling  and  floating, 
The  wall  of  mountains,  the  garden,  the  snow, 
And  one  old  man — how  sinister  and  bedraggled ! — 
Cawing  there  like  a  crow.  .  .  . 

Instant  the  miracle  is.    He  leans  bewildered 
Over  the  infinite  to  search  it  through.  .  .  . 
Loud  sing  the  birds!    On  every  bough  a  bird  sings; 
The  cricket  shrills,  the  day  is  blue. 

Conrad  Aiken 


434  NEW  VOICES 


CHOICE 

I  set  on  this  barren  board 

(Yours  is  the  choice,  not  mine) 

The  bread  and  leeks  for  your  hunger's  ease, 

The  unacknowledged  wine. 

No  protests — no  demands — 

Always  there  will  be 

The  driftwood  fire  that  warms  your  hands, 

The  stars  you  do  not  care  to  see. 

Muna  Lee 


WOODEN  SHIPS 

They  are  remembering  forests  where  they  grew, — 

The  midnight  quiet,  and  the  giant  dance; 
And  all  the  murmuring  summers  that  they  knew 

Are  haunting  still  their  altered  circumstance. 
Leaves  they  have  lost,  and  robins  in  the  nest, 

Tug  of  the  goodly  earth  denied  to  ships, 
These,  and  the  rooted  certainties,  and  rest, — 

To  gain  a  watery  girdle  at  the  hips. 

Only  the  wind  that  follows  ever  aft, 

They  greet  not  as  a  stranger  on  their  ways; 

But  this  old  friend,  with  whom  they  drank  and  laughed, 
Sits  in  the  stern  and  talks  of  other  days 

When  they  had  held  high  bacchanalias  still, 

Or  dreamed  among  the  stars  on  some  tall  hill. 

David  Morton 


A  WHALER'S  CONFESSION 

Three  long  years  a-sailing,  three  long  years  a-whaling, 
Kicking  through  the  ice  floes,  caught  in  calm  or  gale, 

Lost  in  flat  Sargasso  seas,  cursing  at  the  prickly  heat, 
Going  months  without  a  sight  of  another  sail. 


POSTSCRIPT  435 

I've  learned  to  hate  the  Mate,  and  I've  always  cursed  the  Captain. 

I  hate  the  bally  Bo'sun,  and  all  the  bally  crew, — 
And,  sometimes,  in  the  night-watch,  the  long  and  starry  night-watch, 

Queer  thoughts  have  run  wild  in  my  head — I've  even  hated  you! 

You,  that  have  been  my  shipmate  for  fifteen  years  of  sailing, 
From  Peru  to  Vladivostock,  from  England  to  Japan.  .  .  . 

Which  shows  how  months  of  sailing,  when  even  pals  go  whaling, 
Can  get  upon  the  bally  nerves  of  any  bally  man. 

I'm  glad  our  nose  points  homeward,  points  home  again  to  Bristol, — 
I'm  glad  for  Kate  who's  waiting,  far  down  a  little  lane: 

I'll  sign  her  for  a  long  cruise,  a  longer  cruise  than  this  one, 
And  seal  the  bargain  like  a  man,  before  I  sail  again. 

Yes,  I  will  still  go  sailing;  yes,  I  will  still  go  whaling: 
I've  done  a  lot  of  thinking  along  of  love  and  hate.  .  .  . 

For  signing  on  a  woman's  a  cruise  that  lasts  a  lifetime — 

And  I'd  rather  hate  a  hundred  crews  than  take  to  hating  Kate! 

Three  long  years  of  whaling  .  .  .  yes,  a  life-time  sailing, 
Kicking  through  the  ice  floes,  caught  in  calm  or  gale, 

Lost  in  flat  Sargasso  seas,  cursing  at  the  prickly  heat, 
Going  months  without  a  sight  of  another  sail ! 

Harry  Kemp 


GLADNESS 

There  was  a  time  when  Mother  Nature  made 
My  soul's  sun,  and  my  soul's  shade. 

A  cloud  in  the  sky  could  take  away 
The  song  in  my  heart  for  all  day, 

And  a  little  lark  in  a  willow  tree 
Would  mean  happiness  to  me. 

My  moods  would  mirror  all  her  whims, 

Trees  were  my  strength,  their  limbs,  my  limbs; 


436  NEW  VOICES 

But,  oh,  my  mother  tortured  me 
Blowing  with  wind  and  sighing  with  sea. 

I  flamed,  I  withered,  I  blossomed,  I  sang, 
With  her  I  suffered  pang  for  pang, 

Until  I  said,  "I  will  grow  my  own  tree 
Where  no  natural  wind  will  bother  me." 

And  I  grew  me  a  willow  of  my  own  heart's  strength, 
With  my  will  for  its  width,  and  my  wish  for  its  length; 

And  I  made  me  a  bird  of  my  own  heart's  fire 
To  sing  my  own  sun,  and  my  own  desire; 

And  a  vast  white  circle  came  in  the  air, 

And  the  winds  around  said,  "Don't  blow  there." 

I  said,  "Blow  on,  blow,  blow,  blow,  blow 

Fill  all  the  sky  above,  below, 

With  tempest,  and  sleet  and  silence  and  snow/ 

Wherever  I  go,  no  matter  where, 

My  bird  and  my  willow-tree  are  there. 

However  you  frown,  no  matter  how 
I  will  sing  as  I  am  singing  now." 

Genevieve  Taggard 


MORTUARY  PARLORS 

The  smooth,  unobtrusive  walls  say  "Hush!"  in  a  voice  of  honey  and 

meal, 

The  refined  and  comforting  chairs  protest  that  sorrow  may  be  genteel, 
They  are  all  hiding  the  dead  away,  they  are  huddling  them  off  to 

forget  .  .  . 
— I  would  rather  scoop  a  hole  in  the  sand  till  my  hands  ran  blood  and 

sweat, 


POSTSCRIPT  437 

I  would  rather  raise  my  friend  on  a  pyre  for  the  lightning  to  do  its 

will, 
I  would  sooner  leave  my  dead  to  the  dogs — they  are  happy  over  their 

kill— 

Than  to  bring  them  here  to  this  oily  place  to  lie  like  a  numbered  sheaf ! 
— This  servants'  quiet  can  have  no  room  for  my  racked  and  horrible 

grief — 
The  windows  smile  with  the  smiles  of  masks,  the  curtains  are  specters 

walking, 
And  Death,  the  obsequious  gentleman,  comes  rubbing  black  gloves 

and  talking! 

Stephen  Vincent  Benet 


MOTHER 

Your  love  was  like  moonlight 

turning  harsh  things  to  beauty, 

so  that  little  wry  souls 

reflecting  each  other  obliquely 

as  in  cracked  mirrors  .  .  . 

beheld  in  your  luminous  spirit 

their  own  reflection, 

transfigured  as  in  a  shining  stream, 

and  loved  you  for  what  they  were  not. 

You  are  less  an  image  in  my  mind 

than  a  luster 

I  see  you  in  gleams 

pale  as  star-light  on  a  gray  wall  .  .  . 

evanescent  as  the  reflection  of  a  white  swan 

shimmering  in  broken  water. 

Lola  Ridge 


438  NEW  VOICES 


THE  MOULD 

No  doubt  this  active  will, 
So  bravely  steeped  in  sun, 
This  will  has  vanquished  Death 
And  foiled  oblivion. 

But  this  indifferent  clay, 
This  fine,  experienced  hand 
So  quiet,  and  these  thoughts 
That  all  unfinished  stand, 

Feel  death  as  though  it  were 
A  shadowy  caress; 
And  win  and  wear  a  frail 
Archaic  wistfulness. 

Gladys  Cromwell 

CLIMB 

My  shoes  fall  on  the  house-top  that  is  so  far  beneath  me, 
I  have  hung  my  hat  forever  on  the  sharp  church  spire, 

Now  what  shall  seem  the  hill  but  a  moment  of  surmounting, 
The  height  but  a  place  to  dream  of  something  higher! 

Wings?    Oh  not  for  me,  I  need  no  other  pinions 

Than  the  beating  of  my  heart  within  my  breast; 
Wings  are  for  the  dreamer  with  a  bird-like  longing, 

Whose  dreams  come  home  at  eventide  to  nest. 

The  timid  folk  beseech  me,  the  wise  ones  warn  me, 
They  say  that  I  shall  never  grow  to  stand  so  high; 

But  I  climb  among  the  hills  of  cloud  and  follow  vanished  lightning, 
I  shall  stand  knee-deep  in  thunder  with  my  head  against  the  sky. 

Tiptoe,  at  last,  upon  a  pinnacle  of  sunset, 

I  shall  greet  the  death-like  evening  with  laughter  from  afar, 
Nor  tremble  in  the  darkness  nor  shun  the  windy  midnight, 

For  by  the  evening  I  shall  be  a  star. 

Winifred  Welles 


POSTSCRIPT  439 


DAISIES 


Snow-white  shawls.  .  .  . 

Golden  faces.  .  .  . 

Countryside,  hillside,  wayside  people. 

Little  market-women 

Selling  dew  and  yellow  flour 

To  make  bread 

For  some  city  of  elves. 


TIME 

Time  is  a  harp 

That  plays  till  you  fall  asleep: — 

You  are  always  spending  it  away 

Like  a  music.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  you  are  left  alone  on  a  trail  of  wind. 

The  mountains  were  asleep 

Long  ago! 

Listen  .  .  .  the  tune  is  changing.  .  .  . 

Do  you  hear  it? 

You  will  sleep  too 

Before  long.  .  .  . 

Hilda  Conkling 


THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  MOLE 

Avoid  the  reeking  herd, 
Shun  the  polluted  flock, 
Live  like  that  stoic  bird 
The  eagle  of  the  rock. 

The  huddled  warmth  of  crowds 
Begets  and  fosters  hate; 
He  keeps,  above  the  clouds, 
His  cliff  inviolate. 


440  NEW  VOICES 

When  flocks  are  folded  warm, 
And  herds  to  shelter  run, 
He  sails  above  the  storm, 
He  stares  into  the  sun. 

If  in  the  eagle's  track 
Your  sinews  cannot  leap, 
Avoid  the  lathered  pack, 
Turn  from  the  steaming  sheep. 

If  you  would  keep  your  soul 
From  spotted  sight  or  sound, 
Live  like  the  velvet  mole; 
Go  burrow  underground. 


And  there  hold  intercourse 
With  roots  of  trees  and  stones, 
With  rivers  at  their  source, 
And  disembodied  bones. 

Elinor  Wylie 


THE  GIFT 

He  has  taken  away  the  things  that  I  loved  best: 
Love  and  youth  and  the  harp  that  knew  my  hand. 

Laughter  alone  is  left  of  all  the  rest. 

Does  He  mean  that  I  may  fill  my  days  with  laughter, 
Or  will  it,  too,  slip  through  my  fingers  like  spilt  sand? 

Why  should  I  beat  my  wings  like  a  bird  in  a  net, 
When  I  can  be  still  and  laugh  at  my  own  desire? 

The  wise  may  shake  their  heads  at  me,  but  yet 
I  should  be  sad  without  my  little  laughter. 
The  crackling  of  thorns  is  not  so  bad  a  fire. 

Will  He  take  away  even  the  thorns  from  under  the  pot, 

And  send  me  cold  and  supperless  to  bed? 
He  has  been  good  to  me.    I  know  He  will  not. 

He  gave  me  to  keep  a  little  foolish  laughter. 
I  shall  not  lose  it  even  when  I  am  dead. 

A  line  Kilmer 


POSTSCRIPT  441 


THE  VOICE 

Atoms  as  old  as  stars, 
Mutation  on  mutation, 
Millions  and  millions  of  cells 
Dividing  yet  still  the  same, 
From  air  and  changing  earth, 
From  ancient  Eastern  rivers, 
From  turquoise  tropic  seas, 
Unto  myself  I  came. 

My  spirit  like  my  flesh 

Sprang  from  a  thousand  sources, 

From  cave-man,  hunter  and  shepherd, 

From  Karnak,  Cyprus,  Rome; 

The  living  thoughts  in  me 

Spring  from  dead  men  and  women, 

Forgotten  time  out  of  mind 

And  many  as  bubbles  of  foam. 

Here  for  a  moment's  space 
Into  the  light  out  of  darkness, 
I  come  and  they  come  with  me 
Finding  words  with  my  breath; 
From  the  wisdom  of  many  lifetimes 
I  hear  them  cry:  "Forever 
Seek  for  Beauty,  she  only 
Fights  with  man  against  Death!" 

Sara  Teasdale 


INDEX   OF  POEMS 

PAGE 

Absolution Siegfried  Sassoon 256 

After  Sunset Grace  Hazard  Conkling 145 

After  Two  Years Richard  Aldington 286 

Aladdin  and  the  Jinn Vachel  Lindsay 282 

"All  Vision  Fades,  but  Splendor 

Does  not  Die" Samuel  Roth 347 

An  April  Morning Bliss  Carman . 48 

Anne  Rutledge Edgar  Lee  Masters 374 

Answer,  The Sara  Teasdale 48 

Around  the  Sun Katherine  Lee  Bates 168 

Ash  Wednesday John  Erskine 163 

Assault  Heroic,  The Robert  Graves 257 

At  Night Alice  Meynell 141 

Bacchante  to  her  Babe,  The Eunice  Tietjens 78 

Ballad  of  the  Cross,  The Theodosia  Garrison 317 

Bird  and  the  Tree,  The Ridgely  Torrence 369 

Birth,  The Don  Marquis 312 

Black  Vulture,  The George  Sterling 343 

Bombardment,  The Amy  Lowell 72 

Breakfast Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 255 

Broadway Hermann  Hagedorn 231 

Broncho  That  Would  not  be 

Broken,  The Vachel  Lindsay 393 

Brown's  Descent Robert  Frost 391 

BuU,  The Ralph  Hodgson 97 

Caliban  in  the  Coal  Mines Louis  Untermeyer 229 

Calling-One's-Own  (translation)..  .Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 282 

Canticle William  Griffith 346 

Cargoes John  Masefield 96 

Cedars,  The Josephine  Preston  Peabody. .  44 

Certain  American  Poets Odell  Shepard 144 

Cherry  Way Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 230 

Child Carl  Sandburg 314 

443 


444  INDEX  OF  POEMS 

PAGE 

Child's  Heritage,  The John  G.  Neihardt 387 

Christmas  Folk  Song,  A Lizette  Woodworth  Reese.  .  .  313 

Cinquains: 

The  Warning Adelaide  Crapsey  26 

November  Night "  "       44 

Fate  Defied "  "       44 

The  Guarded  Wound "  "       44 

Night  Winds "  "       93 

Clay  Hills Jean  Starr  Untermeyer 191 

Coming  to  Port Max  Eastman 71 

Common  Street,  The Helen  Gray  Cone 229 

Comrade  Jesus Sarah  M.  Cleghorn 314 

Consecration,  A John  Masefield 228 

Cool  Tombs Carl  Sandburg 192 

Cornucopia  of  Red  and  Green  Com- 
fits, The Amy  Lowell 265 

Cow  in  Apple  Time,  The Robert  Frost 141 

Cuckoo,  The Francis  Carlin 91 

Da  Leetla  Boy Thomas  Augustine  Daly 375 

Dark  Cavalier,  The Margaret  Widdemer no 

Dawn Richard  Aldington 254 

Day  For  Wandering,  A Clinton  Scollard 336 

Days  Too  Short William  H.  Davies 395 

Daybreak Louis  Untermeyer 142 

Dead,  The Rupert  Brooke 253 

Deirdre James  Stephens 47 

Desire  in  Spring Francis  Ledwidge 334 

Down  Fifth  Avenue John  Curtis  Underwood 263 

Draw  the  Sword,  O  Republic Edgar  Lee  Masters 262 

Dying  Patriot,  The James  Elroy  Flecker 43 

Earth John  Hall  Wheelock 328 

End  of  the  World,  The Gordon  Bottomley 134 

Epitaph '-.,... Louise  Driscoll 338 

Falconer  of  God,  The . N. William  Rose  Bene"t 307 

Father,  The Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 255 

Flammonde Edwin  Arlington  Robinson .  .    366 

Flight,  The George  Edward  Woodberry. .    170 

Flower  Factory,  The Florence  Wilkinson.  ........   231 

Fog Carl  Sandburg 86 


INDEX  OF  POEMS  445 

PAGE 

Forty  Singing  Seamen Alfred  Noyes 1 59 

Fox,  The Kahlil  Gibran 96 

Frost  in  Spring Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse 289 

"Frost  To-night" Edith  M.  Thomas 108 

Fugitives,  The • Florence  Wilkinson 234 

Furrow  and  the  Hearth,  The Padraic  Colum 333 

"God,  You  Have  Been  Too  Good 

to  Me" Charles  Wharton  Stork 309 

Good  Company Karle  Wilson  Baker 311 

Grandmither,  Think  Not  I  Forget .  Willa  Sibert  Gather 288 

Greek    Folk    Song:    A    Cyprian 

Woman Margaret  Widdemer 45 

Greek  Folk  Song:  Remembrance. .  .Margaret  Widdemer 77 

Grieve  Not  for  Beauty Witter  Bynner 133 

Gum  Gatherer,  The Robert  Frost 139 

Her  Words Anna  Hempstead  Branch 131 

Homage Helen  Hoyt 290 

House  and  the  Road,  The Josephine  Preston  Peabody . . .  296 

How  Much  of  Godhood Louis  Untermeyer 285 

"I  Am  in  Love  with  High,  Far- 
seeing  Places"  (Sonnet) Arthur  Davison  Ficke 284 

"I  Could  not  Sleep  for  Thinking 

of  the  Sky"  (Sonnet) John  Masefield 336 

"I    Have    a    Rendezvous    with 

Death" Alan Seeger 261 

"  I  Sat  among  the  Green  Leaves" . .  Marjorie  L.  C.  PickthaU 288 

I  Would  Live  in  Your  Love Sara  Teasdale 294 

Idealists Alfred  Kreymborg 193 

Interlude Scudder  Middleton 139 

In  the  Mohave Patrick  Orr 341 

In  the  Poppy  Field James  Stephens 138 

Indian  Summer William  Ellery  Leonard 41 

Invocation, Max  Eastman 310 

Iron  Music,  The Ford  Madox  Hueffer 260 

Isaiah  Beethoven Edgar  Lee  Masters 373 

Jew  to  Jesus,  The Florence  Kiper  Frank 316 

Jim  Jay Walter  de  la  Mare 14 

June Francis  Ledwidge 335 

Kiss,  The ^ Siegfried  Sassoon 256 


446  INDEX  OF  POEMS 

PAGE 

Lamp,  The Sara  Teasdale 294 

Last  Days,  The George  Sterling 342 

Leaden-Eyed,  The Vachel  Lindsay 228 

Leaves Sara  Teasdale 137 

Lepanto G.  K.  Chesterton 396 

Lincoln,  The  Man  of  the  People.  .Edwin  Markham 105 

Listeners,  The Walter  de  la  Mare 76 

Little  Things Orrick  Johns 81 

Loam Carl  Sandburg 192 

Lord  of  My  Heart's  Elation Bliss  Carman 306 

Love  Came  Back  at  Fall  o'  Dew.  .Lizette  Woodworth  Reese.  .  .  293 

Love  is  a  Terrible  Thing Grace  Fallow  Norton. 292 

Love  Song Harriet  Monroe 292 

Lucinda  Matlock Edgar  Lee  Masters 374 

Lynmouth  Widow,  A Amelia  Josephine  Burr 291 

Lyric  from  "The  Land  of  Heart's 

Desire" William  Butler  Yeats 388 

Man  with  the  Hoe,  The Edwin  Markham 235 

Martin Joyce  Kilmer 362 

Maternity Alice  Meynell 294 

Merchants  from  Cathay William  Rose  Benet 371 

Messages,  The Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 254 

Miniver  Cheevy. Edwin  Arlington  Robinson .  .  365 

Miss  Loo Walter  de  la  Mare 363 

Monosyllabic Carl  Sandburg 56 

Monotone Carl  Sandburg 72 

Moon  Folly Fannie  Stearns  Davis 390 

Morning  Song  of  Senlin,  The Conrad  Aiken 344 

Most  Sacred  Mountain,  The Eunice  Tiet jens 80 

Motherhood Agnes  Lee 295 

Mountain  Song Harriet  Monroe 340 

"My  Lady  Ne'er  Hath  Given  Her- 
self to  Me"  (Sonnet) George  Edward  Woodberry. .  171 

My  Light  with  Yours Edgar  Lee  Masters 284 

My  Mirror Aline  Kilmer 297 

Mystery Scudder  Middleton 139 

Narratives Rabindranath  Tagore. . .  .311-312 

Nature's  Friend William  H.  Davies 339 

Nearer Robert  Nichols 259 


INDEX  OF  POEMS  447 

PAGE 

New  World,  The  (Selection) Witter  Bynner 239 

Night James  Oppenheim 188 

Night's  Mardi  Gras Edward  J.  Wheeler 233 

Nirvana John  Hall  Wheelock 286 

Old  Age Percy  Mackaye 133 

Old  Bed,  The Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 135 

Old  Houses  of  Flanders,  The .....  Ford  Madox  Hueffer 260 

Old  Manuscript Alfred  Kreymborg 193 

Old  Man's  Winter  Night,  An Robert  Frost 364 

Old  Woman,  The Joseph  Campbell 213 

Old  Woman  of  the  Roads,  An ....  Padraic  Colum 109 

"On    the   Day   when    the   Lotus 

Bloomed" Rabindranath  Tagore 27 

On  the  Great  Plateau Edith  Wyatt 343 

Out  of  Trenches:  The  Barn,  Twi- 
light,   Robert  Nichols 258 

Pandora's  Song William  Vaughn  Moody 107 

Paper  Roses Dana  Burnet 115 

Path  Flower Olive  Tilford  Dargan 172 

Path  of  the  Stars,  The Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 308 

Patrins ' Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse 290 

Patterns Amy  Lowell 33 

Peace Sara  Teasdale 293 

Penetralia Madison  Cawein 331 

Perennial  May Thomas  Augustine  Daly 287 

Psalm Jessie  E.  Sampter 46 

Rain,  Rain Zoe  Akins 290 

Rain,  The William  H.  Davies 395 

Renascence Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay ....  36 

Richard  Cory Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  .  365 

Road-Song  of  the  Bandar-Log .  . .  .Rudyard  Kipling 388 

Roses  in  the  Subway Dana  Burnet 234 

Rouge  Bouquet Joyce  Kilmer 269 

Runner  in  the  Skies,  The James  Oppenheim 177 

Sacrifice .Ada  Foster  Murray 296 

Said  a  Blade  of  Grass Kahlil  Gibran no 

Said  the  Sun James  Oppenheim 178 

Santa  Barbara  Beach Ridgely  Torrence 340 

Sante  Fe  Trail Vacjhel  Lindsay 67 


448  INDEX  OF  POEMS 

PAGE 

Scum  o'  the  Earth Robert  Haven  Schauffler.    . .   237 

Sea  Gods H.  D 102 

Seal  Lullaby Rudyard  Kipling 76 

Ships John  Masefield 146 

Silver Walter  de  la  Mare 108 

"So  Beautiful  You  are  Indeed". .  .Irene  Rutherford  McLeod.  . .   287 

Song Florence  Earle  Coates. .  .  .  116-159 

Song  of  the  Full  Catch Constance  Lindsay  Skinner. .     81 

Song  of  Wandering  Aengus William  Butler  Yeats 132 

Sound  of  the  Trees,  The Robert  Frost 337 

Spring John  Gould  Fletcher 138 

Spring  Sows  Her  Seeds Mary  Carolyn  Davies 268 

Standards Charles  Wharton  Stork 106 

Strong  Woman,  The Roscoe  Gilmore  Stott 212 

Sunrise  on  Rydal  Water John  Drinkwater 136 

Symbols John  Drinkwater in 

Tampico Grace  Hazard  Conkling 45 

"  There  are  Strange  Shadows  Fos- 
tered of  the  Moon"  (Sonnet) . .  .Arthur  Davison  Ficke 285 

Time  Clock,  The Charles  Hanson  Towne 232 

Transformations Thomas  Hardy 330 

Trees Joyce  Kilmer 310 

Two  Voices Alice  Corbin 309 

Unbeliever,  An Anna  Hempstead  Branch. .  .  .   315 

Up  a  Hill  and  a  Hill Fannie  Stearns  Davis 389 

From  "Variations" Conrad  Aiken 109,  141 

Vigil  of  Joseph,  The Elsa  Barker 313 

Virgin's  Slumber  Song,  The Francis  Carlin 75 

Vistas Odell  Shepard 144 

What  Dim  Arcadian  Pastures ....  Alice  Corbin 49 

White  Iris Pauline  B.  Barrington 107 

Who  Loves  the  Rain Frances  Shaw 45 

"The  Wind  Blew  Words" Thomas  Hardy 330 

Windmills John  Gould  Fletcher 104 

Winds,  The(Sonnet) Madison  Cawein 332 

Woman,  A Scudder  Middleton 213 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Aiken,  Conrad,  5,  109,  142,  319, 

326,  346 
Akins,  Zoe,  290 
Aldington,  Richard,  10,  88,  254, 

286 

Aldis,  Mary,  353 
Baker,  Karle  Wilson,  311 
Barker,  Elsa,  304,  314 
Barrington,  Pauline  B.,  107 
Bates,  Katharine  Lee,  149,  170 
Benet,  William  Rose,  197,  201, 

202,203,301,308,373 
Binyon,  Laurence,  245 
Bottomley,  Gordon,  9,  135,  227, 

350 

Braithwaite,  William  Stanley,  3 
Branch,  Anna  Hempstead,  132, 

149,  305,  316 
Bridges,  Robert,  208 
Brooke,  Rupert,  2,  n,  91,  227, 

240,  247,  254 

Brownell,  William  Crary,  215 
Burnet,  Dana,  114,  235 
Burr,  Amelia  Josephine,  291 
Bynner,  Witter,  6,  95,  113,  133, 

217,  241,  302,  353,  354 
Campbell,  Joseph,  9,  213 
Carlin,  Francis,  76,  91 
Carman,  Bliss,  2,  48,  117,  149, 

275,  3oo,  307 
Gather,  Willa  Sibert,  289 
Cawein,  Madison,  332 
Chesterton,  G.  K.,  60,  151,  245, 

275,  382,  399 


Cleghorn,  Sarah  N.,  304, 315 
Coates,     Florence    Earle,     116, 

JS9 
Colum,  Padraic,  9,  91,  no,  206, 

323,  324,  334 
Cone,  Helen  Gray,  230 
Conkling,  Grace  Hazard,  10,  45, 

145 

Corbin,  Alice,  49,  310 
Crapsey,  Adelaide,  26,  44,  93 
Cronyn,  George,  273 
Crow,  Martha  Foote,  302 
Daly,   Thomas  Augustine,    287, 

362,  376 

Dargan,  Olive  Tilford,  157,  174 
Davies,  Mary  Carolyn,  269 
Davies,  William  H.,  92,  322,  340, 

395 
Davis,  Fannie  Stearns,  386,  389, 

39i 

de  la  Mare,  Walter,  9,  15,  61,  62, 
77,    90,    108,    351,    353,    362, 

364,  385 

Drinkwater,  John,  in,  137 
Driscoll,  Louise,  339 
Dunsany,  Lord,  6,  150 
Eastman,  Max,  61,  72,  302,  310, 

380 

Eliot,  T.  S.,  182,  183 
Erskine,  John,  4,  168 
Farrar,  John  Chipman,  252 
Ficke,  Arthur  Davison,  22,  95, 

113,  274,  284,  285 
Flecker,  James  Elroy,  43 


449 


450 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Fletcher,  John  Gould,  10,  28,  56, 

93,  105,  138 
Flint,  F.  S.,  10 
Foster,  Jeanne  Robert,  3 
Frank,  Florence  Kiper,  305,  316 
Frost,  Robert,  2,  6,  63,  64,  127, 

128,  140,  141,  179,  195,  207, 

321,  337,  352,  354,  365,  386, 

393 

Garrison,  Theodosia,  303,  317 
Gibran,  Kahlil,  27,  95,  in 
Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson,  9,  113, 

126,  127,  136,  218,  227,  247, 

248,  255,  350,  351,  362 
Graves,  Robert,  249,  250,  258 
Griffith,  William,  346 
Hagedorn,  Hermann,  231 
Hardy,   Thomas,    14,   245,   320, 

330,  33i 

H.  D.,  10,  88,  90,  104 
Head,  Cloyd,  186 
Hodgson,  Ralph,  9,  96,  102 
Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno,  282 
Housman,  A.  E.,   14,   275,  321, 

324 

Hoyt,  Helen,  278,  291 
Hueffer,  Ford  Madox,  250,  260, 

261 

Jones,  Thomas  S.,  Jr.,  302,  309 
Johns,  Orrick,  82 
Kilmer,  Aline,  297 
Kilmer,    Joyce,    252,    253,    271, 

3",  353,  362,  363 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  14,  62,  76, 

151,245,385,389 
Kreymborg,  Alfred,  185,  186, 

193 

Ledwidge,  Francis,  335 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  2,  14 
Lee,  Agnes,  296 


Leonard,  William  Ellery,  43 
Lindsay,  Vachel,  2,  6,  9,  64,  65, 

71,128,129,179,195,216,229, 

283,  352,  354,  386,  394 
Lowell,  Amy,  2,  5,  9,  22,  25,  26, 

3i,  36,  54,  58,  59,  74,  88,  89, 

175,  268 

Lowes,  John  Livingston,  13 
Mackaye,  Percy,  134 
Markham,   Edwin,   6,   93,    106, 

203,  211,  216,  236 
Marquis,  Don,  298,  313 
Masefield,  John,  2,  96,  113,  123, 

126,  148,  195,  197,  220,  221, 
222,  228,  246,  327,  336,  351, 
352,  362,  382 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee,  3,  10,  251, 
263,  284,  354,  357,  358,  359, 
360,  361,  374,  375 
McLeod,  Irene  Rutherford,  277, 

288 

Meynell,  Alice,  141,  295 
Middleton,  Scudder,  139,  213 
Millay,  Edna  St.  Vincent,  41 
Mitchell,    Ruth    Comfort,    230, 

253 

Monro,  Harold,  327 
Monroe,  Harriet,  3,  6,  112,  113, 

186,  205,  223,  293,  340 
Moody,  William  Vaughn,  2,  107, 

179 

Murray,  Ada  Foster,  149,  296 
Neihardt,  John  G.,  387 
Newbolt,  Henry,  245 
Nichols,  Robert,   249,   250,   259 
Norton,  Grace  Fallow,  277,  292 
Noyes,    Alfred,    152,    153,    154, 

155,157,163 
Oppenheim,    James,    177,    178, 

179,  180,  182,  191,  219 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


451 


Orr,  Patrick,  324,  342 
Patterson,  William  Morrison,  59 
Peabody,  Josephine  Preston,  44, 

281,  297 
Perry,  Bliss,  13 

Pickthall,   Marjorie  L.   C.,   288 
Pound,  Ezra,   14,  54,  182,  183, 

184, 185, 305 

Reedy,  William  Marion,  3 
Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth,   149 

293,  303,  3i3 
Richards,  Mrs.  Waldo,  4 
Rittenhouse,  Jessie  B.,  4,   156, 

289,  290 

Roberts,  Charles  G.  D.,  149 
Robinson,   Edwin  Arlington,   9, 

354,  355,  356,  357,  362,  365, 

366,  369 

Roth,  Samuel,  347 
Sampter,  Jessie  E.,  26,  47 
/Sandburg,  Carl,  9,  55,  56,  57,  72, 

86,   180,    181,   182,    192,    195, 

217,  218,  303,  304,  314 
Sassoon,  Siegfried,  9,   248,   249, 

250,  256 
Schauffler,  Robert  Haven,   239, 

353 

Scollard,  Clinton,  337 
Seeger,  Alan,  250,  262 
Shaw,  Frances,  45 
Shepard,  Odell,  144,  145 
Skinner,  Constance  Lindsay,  55, 

57,8i,ii7 

Stephens,  James,  9,  29,  48,  129 
Sterling,  George,  325,  342,  343 


Stevens,  Wallace,  85,  186 

Stevenson,  Burton  E.,  4 

Stork,    Charles    Wharton,    106, 

309 

Stott,  Roscoe  Gilmore,  212,  213 
Tagore,    Rabindranath,    3,    27, 

95,3i2 
Teasdale,    Sara,   3,   9,   49,    130, 

137,  195,  199,  201,  278,  281, 

294 

Thomas,  Edith  M.,  92,  108 
Thomas,  Edward,  323,  324 
Tietjens,  Eunice,  57,  80,  81,  118, 

223 

Torrence,  Ridgely,  9,  341,  370 
Towne,  Charles  Hanson,  233 
Underwood,  John  Curtis,  265 
Untermeyer,  Jean  Starr,  191,  281 
Untermeyer,  Louis,  5,  113,  143, 

184,  216,  229,  285,  353 
Watson,  William,  320 
Wheeler,  Edward  J.,  3,  234 
Wheelock,  John  Hall,  286,  319, 

330 
Widdemer,    Margaret,    30,    46, 

62,  78,  no,  196,  219 
Wilkinson,    Florence,    231,    234, 

353 

Williams,  William  Carlos,  226 
Wood,  Clement,  176,  177 
Woodberry,  George  E.,  13,  156, 

157,  171 

Wyatt,  Edith,  325,  344 
Yeats,   William  Butler,    14,   64, 

113,  133,  208,  388 


INDEX  OF  POEMS  IN  POSTSCRIPT 

Choice Mima  Lee 434 

Climb Winifred  WeUes 438 

Daisies Hilda  Conkling 439 

Eagle  and  The  Mole,  The Elinor  Wylie 440 

Epilogue Lascelles  Abercrombie 427 

Every  Thing Harold  Monro 423 

Fireflies  in  The  Corn D.  H.  Lawrence 432 

Gift,  The Aline  Kilmer 440 

Gladness Genevieve  Taggard 436 

House,  A J.  C.  Squire 429 

Lady  With  The  Sewing  Machine, 

The Edith  Sitwell 430 

Mortuary  Parlors Stephen  Vincent  Benet 437 

Mother Lola  Ridge 437 

Mould,  The Gladys  Cromwell 438 

Old  Man  Sees  Himself,  An Conrad  Aiken 433 

Prayer F.  S.  Flint 427 

Saturday  Market Charlotte  Mew 431 

Strange  Meeting Wilfred  Owen 421 

Time Hilda  Conkling 439 

Voice,  The Sara  Teasdale 441 

Whaler's  Confession,  A Harry  Kemp 435 

Wooden  Ships David  Morton 434 


452 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  NAMED  IN  POSTSCRIPT 


Abercrombie,  Lascelles,  415,  427 
Aiken,  Conrad,  412,  433 
Aldington,  Richard,  417 
Anderson,  Maxwell,  414 
Baker,  Karle  Wilson,  412 
Benet,    Stephen    Vincent,    412, 

437 

Benet,  William  Rose,  411 
Bodenheim,  Maxwell,  411 
Bunker,  John,  413 
Bynner,  Witter,  411 
Colum,  Padraic,  404,  405 
Conkling,  Hilda,  413,  439 
Corbin,  Alice,  411 
Cromwell,  Gladys,  438 
Curran,  Edwin,  413 
Davies,  H.  L.,  414 
Deutsch,  Babette,  413 
de  la  Mare,  Walter,  415 
Fisher,  Mahlon  Leonard,  412 
Flanner,  Hildegarde,  414 
Fletcher,  John  Gould,  405,  406 
Flint,  F.  S.,  415,  4i6,  427 
Frost,  Robert,  409 
Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson,  415 
Gorman,  Herbert  S.,  412 
Guiterman,  Arthur,  411 
H.  D.,  410,  417 
Huxley,  Aldous,  418 
Kemp,  Harry,  435 
Kenyon,  Berenice  Lesbia,  414 
Kilmer,  Aline,  440 
Lawrence,  D.  H.,  417,  432 


Ledoux,  Louis  V.,  412 
Lee,  Muna,  433 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  411 
Lindsay,  Vachel,  409 
Lowell,  Amy,  408,  409 
Marquis,  Don,  411 
Masefield,  John,  414 
Masters,  Edgar  Lee,  404 
McClure,  John,  414 
Mencken,  H.  L.,  413 
Mew,  Charlotte,  418,  431 
Millay,  Edna  St.  Vincent,  410 
Monro,  Harold,  415,  416,  423 
Morgan,  Angela,  412 
Morton,  David,  434 
Mukerji,  Dhan  Gopal,  413 
Neihardt,  John  G.,  406 
Noguchi,  Yone,  413 
Owen,  Wilfred,  418,  419,  421 
Percy,  William  Alexander,  412 
Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth,  411 
Rice,  Cale  Young,  412 
Ridge,  Lola,  411,  437 
Rihani,  Ameen,  413 
Roberts,  Walter  Adolphe,  414 
Robinson,     Corinne    Roosevelt, 

412 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington,  403 
Sandburg,  Carl,  408 
Sarett,  Lew,  413 
Seiffert,  Marjorie  Allen,  414 
Shanks,  Edward,  418 
Sitwell,  Edith,  418,  430 


453 


454    INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  NAMED  IN  POSTSCRIPT 

Sitwell,  Osbert,  418  Wattles,  Willard,  414 

Sitwell,  Sacheverell,  418  Weaver,  John  V.  A.,  413 

Speyer,  Leonora,  414  Welles,  Winifred,  438 

Squire,  J.  C.,  429  Wheelock,  John  Hall,  410 

Taggard,  Genevieve,  436  Wickham,  Anna,  418 

Teasdale,  Sara,  409,  410,  441  Wood,  Clement,  411 

Tietjens,  Eunice,  411  Wylie,  Elinor,  440 

Turner,  W.  J.,  415  Yeats,  William  Butler,  414 

Untermeyer,  Louis,  412  Zaturensky,  Marya,  414 


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